


Geometry of Loss, The

by spookyawards_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Episode: s09e20 The Truth, F/M, Romance, Work In Progress, post-episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-01
Updated: 2004-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-27 18:55:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14431962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyawards_archivist/pseuds/spookyawards_archivist
Summary: Mulder and Scully struggle with the reality of  their new existence months after the events of  "William" and "The Truth"





	1. Geometry of Loss, The

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Spooky Awards](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Spooky_Awards), and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2018. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [SpookyAwards' collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/spookyawards/profile).

Title: The Geometry of Loss (Chapter 3)  
Author: Kudra  
Rating: PG-13  
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine. They belong   
to Chris Carter, 1013 & Fox, but they sure are fun to   
play with.  
Category: Post-The Truth, MSR  
Summary: Mulder and Scully struggle with the reality of   
their new existence months after the events of   
"William" and "The Truth"  
Archive: Feel free, but please let me know where

Author's Note: Thanks to Elizabeth for the prodding,   
encouragement and most excellent beta.

 

"The Geometry of Loss"  
by Kudra

Chapter 3

 

**To protect her son from the wrath of Set, the   
Egyptian goddess Isis entrusted the care of her beloved   
Horus to strangers, common people in the desert. Her   
husband Osiris was gone, his body dismembered and   
scattered to the ends of the earth, and Isis and Horus   
were themselves hunted in turn.

Although Osiris was later resurrected, Horus remained   
with the kindly couple, and they raised him as their   
own. Disguising herself as a nurse, Isis kept watch as   
her son grew, knowing that his destiny was to defeat   
Set and avenge his father.

Can I claim such lofty motives for the abandonment of   
my son? Like Isis, I let him go for safekeeping... but   
I hoped to shield my son from omens, portents, the   
burden of a glorious destiny.

And should a time come to reclaim him from his   
caretakers, unlike Isis, I do not have the luxury of   
throwing off my disguise, rendering them speechless and   
abject at my divine radiance, ready to grant me   
anything, even their son---my son---in appeasement.

But he is lost... the safe harbor I'd envisioned for   
him cast away like vapors on the wind.

I'm no goddess. I am simply a woman, a mother, who   
failed to trust the strength of her heart... and who   
fears to believe in the power of justice.**

**********

Wyoming is all land and sky, its fantastic geology   
baffling travelers accustomed to the green uniformity   
of the east and northwest. Buttes and canyons give way   
to rolling prairie land and rocky, snowcapped   
mountains. Ranches and farmhouses dot the landscape,   
accents rather than an encroaching force.

Scully has been here more than once, but she was in and   
out of coroner's offices or under cover of darkness,   
never having the chance to simply stand and appreciate   
the beauty of a wide expanse of sky.

As she steps out of the car at the Van de Camp ranch,   
she takes a moment to surrender the present and   
consider what might have been. The sense of endless   
possibility that must have awaited William, growing up   
here under an impossibly big sky, not hemmed in with   
apartments and shopping malls and grim city streets.

Mulder walks up behind her as she breathes in the scent   
of the western wind, a smell of grassy prairie and   
wildness. He brushes the windswept hair out of her   
face, cups her cheeks in his big hands and gently   
kisses her. "Are you ready to go in, Scully?"

*********

They walk in politely, shaking hands, exchanging vague   
pleasantries. *It's possible to do this.* Mulder tells   
himself. He knows they've been in hundreds of homes,   
situations just like this, over the years. How many   
parents of missing children have they questioned?   
Boiled down to the bare essentials, should this be any   
different? 

*How's the weather? How do you like Wyoming? Where's   
my son?* 

Black humor, his trusted means of survival.

"Would you like some tea?" Linda asks, passing Mulder   
on her way to the kitchen.

"No, thanks, Ms. Van de Camp," Mulder replies.

"Please, call me Linda," she pats his shoulder.

The Van de Camps are welcoming, but they're going   
through the motions, washed through with loss.   
Although Mulder can't quite remember what it was like   
to hold William in his arms, the hole in his heart   
remains, and he listens to the couple with   
understanding.

"I was adopted myself," says Linda, "Seemed like giving   
back somehow. And after battling infertility for   
years, it was our only option for becoming parents."

Joe took his hand in her own. "William was a miracle--  
-truly the answer to all our hopes and prayers."

*Scully's too.* Mulder thinks. He knows he abandoned   
prayer long before William came along, but not Scully.   
He glances at her, wondering how many times it is   
possible for a woman's heart to break before it stops   
functioning altogether. Discreetly, he reaches for her   
hand, and softly squeezes it.

Suddenly Mulder is hit with a throb of pain in his   
right temple. Sitting on a couch belonging to   
WilliamÕs adoptive parents is surreal enough in itself,   
but unexpectedly, flashes of his son are assaulting his   
senses.

*William building a block tower and gleefully tearing   
it down. William taking his first tentative steps,   
gazing at his father for assurance. William chasing a   
gray cat, laughing maniacally. William taking a bottle,   
nestled serenely in his new motherÕs arms.*

Mulder is grateful Scully is not plagued with such   
visions.

"William liked it here, didn't he, Linda?" Mulder asks,   
and he feels Scully shift uncomfortably beside him.

"Oh yes," Linda replies, "he's such a happy little boy.   
Absolutely full of wonder at the whole world, like he   
can't contain himself, can't miss anything." She   
smiles at the memory of him.

Scully stands up suddenly, breaking free of Mulder's   
grip. "I'd like to examine William's room now."

*******

"How are we going to handle this, Scully?" Mulder had   
asked earlier, "As investigators or as parents?"

Scully had drawn a deep breath. She was honestly   
unsure of her reply, or if it was indeed possible to   
separate the two. Typical Bureau procedure would never   
allow them to assist on their son's case, but they were   
thousands of miles and two terminations away from   
correct protocol. This was a question for another   
life, one that Special Agent Dana Scully could have   
answered in her sleep.

She no longer had the comfort of easy answers.

"Investigators, first. Parents second," she replied,   
"In fact, I don't think it's a good idea that they   
learn you're William's father." She winced inwardly,   
knowing this would revisit old slights for Mulder, but   
it couldn't be helped. She'd already compromised their   
position enough.

"Yeah, you've never been comfortable with that whole   
too-much-information thing," he smiled weakly, "I'll   
just be your partner. Got a lot of experience in that   
role."

"Well, thanks to the Gunmen, we are identified as   
husband and wife," she says with a slight grin. "I'm   
not asking you to deny involvement with me entirely.   
Let's just tread carefully with the Van de Camps."

And so here they are, tracing the edges of a life their   
son lived without them, piecing together the last   
moments of a tranquil existence, strangers in the place   
William had called home.

Mulder combs the house, finally arriving at William's   
bedroom. Scully watches as he methodically examines   
William's crib, toys, each blanket and shoe, gathering   
data about the son he never had the chance to know.   
She brushes away the approaching sorrow and turns to   
her work.

She dons latex and focuses her attention on the   
scorched rug beneath William's crib, noting how the   
burn has eaten through the woven fibers. Scraping   
scraps and fragments into a small glass jar, she tries   
valiantly to maintain the detached, scientific   
composure she has relied on in the past. She's seen   
these marks before, knows with certainty what caused   
them, and her blood chills when she considers what this   
means for her son.

They do not speak, but move with fluidity, collecting,   
categorizing and analyzing. Scully exchanges brief   
glances with Mulder, automatic, mechanical   
acknowledgments of discovery. She wants to stop, to   
embrace him and claim a moment for their shared loss,   
but she knows they cannot afford emotion right now.

After they've been working for some time, Linda appears   
in the doorway. "The police have been through this   
room five times already, you know."

Scully is startled by Linda's voice, having retreated   
into a clinical, professional zone. "Our experience is   
that each search can yield new findings or open new   
avenues for investigation, Ms. Van de Camp," she   
explains flatly.

"Have you found anything?" Linda asks, hopefully.

"It will take some time to piece everything together,   
but I think I have some idea of which direction we need   
to pursue," says Scully.

"In fact," offers Mulder, settling himself into a   
rocking chair, "according to the databases I've   
searched, children matching William's description have   
been sighted in several locations across the west."

"The police haven't said anything about that."

"That's because it's not available through any official   
channels," explains Mulder. "You'd be amazed at how   
hard it is to find something no one wants you to find."

"David!" says Scully sharply, glaring at Mulder before   
turning to Linda. "We don't want to alarm you, Ms. Van   
de Camp. I assure you we have William's best interests   
at heart."

"Listen," Linda says, "I don't think I need to know why   
you're no longer a cop, Ms. Newland. I understand why   
you want to find William... but I've watched enough cop   
shows to know they don't usually want someone quite so   
emotionally involved on a case." She studies Scully   
for a moment. "How did you end up here, so close to   
us?"

"I guess you could say that Deborah and I have become a   
little disillusioned with what traditional law   
enforcement has to offer," Mulder says with a smirk,   
"We've been in the Southwest pursuing our own leads for   
the past few months, cases that I believe are related   
to William's disappearance."

"David, is it? I didn't quite catch your full name.   
You're Deborah's... partner, right?" Linda asks.

Scully breaks in before Mulder can answer. "He's my   
husband, Ms. Van de Camp. We were partners, and   
married last year---after we left our former jobs.   
He's helped me through some difficult times."

Linda nods. "Mr. Newland, what do you mean about things   
being related to William's case?"

"I'd like to hear this, too," says Joe, joining them,   
peering anxiously around the room, "Something just   
seems off to me."

"Shh, Joe," scolds Linda, "just listen."

"He means that I... we... made quite a few enemies in   
the past," Scully again answers for Mulder, throwing   
him a stern look. "We pursued criminals with... rather   
dangerous agendas. For years we worked to expose these   
organizations, against men with the resources to   
retaliate. It's the main reason I chose to give   
William up for adoption."

"What, like the mafia, organized crime?" Joe asks.

"Not exactly," Mulder replies, "but it was a similar   
sort of danger. Groups with much to gain and secrets   
to keep... who were willing to defend their deceit   
through any means necessary. We're not sure how they   
found him, but we have reason to believe that they are   
using William to get to Deborah."

"Excuse me," Joe says, "but why would anyone choose to   
bring a child into a situation like that?"

"Joe..." cautions Linda, tapping his arm.

"No, damn it!" he says, raising his voice sharply, "I   
think it begs the question! You were a woman in a   
dangerous position, with opponents ready to retaliate   
at any time. You've implied that your life was   
regularly in danger. Why subject an innocent child to   
that kind of life?"

Scully remains frozen, unable, unwilling to respond.   
She glances at Mulder, his face a blank mask.

*"I don't want this to come between us, Scully..."*

"Deborah," Linda begins softly, "I won't apologize for   
my husband. He loves... we both love William so much,   
and we're just trying to find some meaning in this   
terrible mess. But we haven't walked in your shoes, so   
we can't begin to know what you went through."

"I made some mistakes," Scully admits, "but I love   
William. He was something I never expected... and I   
tried to do what was best for him."

"You don't have to defend yourself, Deborah," Mulder   
suddenly breaks in, "You were alone. You did the best   
you could in a bad situation. You shouldn't have to   
answer for that."

He turns to Joe, fixing him with an intense stare.   
"What's clear to me is that William is not safe here.   
Only my wife and I understand the situation to such a   
degree that we can anticipate the danger and protect   
him."

"I think you're out of line, Mr. Newland. This was out   
of our control!" argues Linda. "All we've done since   
William became part of our family is to love and   
protect him and give him our best."

"And obviously your wife does not agree with you," says   
Joe, "since she gave him up."

Irritated, Scully opens her mouth to speak, but Mulder   
acts first.

"That's a situation I intend to rectify," Mulder says   
sternly, "*when* we find him."

"Rectify?" Joe asks. "Pardon me, but aren't you a   
little late to this party to change anything? William   
is our son now, and I don't believe you have any legal   
right to him."

"Perhaps I haven't made myself clear, Mr. Van de Camp,"   
says Mulder, rising to his full 6'2". "I'm William's   
biological father."

Scully gapes at Mulder with a strange mixture of   
disbelief and wonder.

"His father?" Linda draws a deep breath. "The agency   
said there was no father in the picture, just a single   
mother making a lifestyle decision."

Scully purses her lips, then slowly begins to speak,   
"That was true... at the time. Mul... David was out of   
my life after William's birth." She glances at Mulder.   
"It was a complicated situation. We couldn't make   
contact. At the time of the adoption, we had not   
spoken for several months."

"I never signed off on the adoption," Mulder says   
bluntly, "Legally, William is still my son."

"I don't want to think about this right now," says   
Linda, her hands on her forehead, "I just want my son   
back. I just want to know that he is safe."

She turns to Scully and abruptly grabs her hands,   
looking deep into her eyes, their souls bared in a   
moment of mutual maternal pain. "Deborah... if you   
truly have the knowledge he says you have... if you   
truly are an investigator... then I want you to find   
him. I want you to find him for all of us. I know, I   
can feel that you love your son... my son... "

Scully has not allowed herself to cry freely yet, but   
faced with this woman's open wounds, she's suddenly   
aware of her own. She wonders what it must be like to   
feel so intensely. For survival's sake, she's carried   
her pain around like a handbag. Necessary, even useful   
sometimes, but not a part of her. After Emily, she   
can't remember the last time she allowed sorrow to   
fully permeate her being, certain that it would have   
destroyed her.

But now she meets Linda's anguished gaze and lets her   
tears flow, drenched and soaking in the love and loss   
they both feel for the same little person, the center   
of both their universes.

"I will find him," she whispers, "I'll find him for   
everyone."

For this moment, she believes her words. 

**********

Her head is spinning on the way back to the motel, the   
promises and accusations and implications of their   
visit torturing her with their intensity. She can't   
articulate what she's feeling, so she remains silent.

"Are you pissed at me, Scully?" Mulder asks, eyes on   
the road.

She doesn't reply. Doesn't even turn to look at him.

"I just opened my mouth and revealed everything you   
asked me not to share... not to mention how I really   
feel about this shit," he says, glancing at her for a   
moment. "I'm sorry, Scully. I'm sorry I went off on   
that guy... but it was the truth. William was never   
safe there," he pauses, swallowing. "And I do want him   
back. I spent half my life searching for my sister,   
trying to piece my family back together. Do you think   
I'd let my son go that easily?"

She feels a sudden rush of shame, but she's so weary of   
that as her first reaction. "I know you wouldn't,   
Mulder. You never would have let me go through with   
the adoption... had you been there. But you weren't   
there."

She stares out the window for a moment. "Do you mean   
that? Do you really want to fight for custody of   
William when he's found? Can we even do that with our   
legal status? Won't that be like giving ourselves up?   
Total exposure for us and William?"

"I don't know, Scully," Mulder breathes, "I just want   
William out of harm's way. I don't believe two   
ordinary people with no knowledge of the danger he's in   
can keep him protected. I know our life is uncertain,   
transient, no place for a child... but part of me   
thinks we're his only chance."

"We really can't make decisions like this right now,   
Mulder. We've got to find him first," says Scully, her   
practicality returning. "And we will," and she treats   
Mulder to a rare smile.

He pats her leg affectionately. "You know, she reminds   
me a little of my mother," he says.

"Who?"

"Linda Van de Camp."

"Is that a good thing?" Scully thinks of the cool,   
distant woman she'd encountered only briefly under the   
most difficult circumstances.

"Not the person you knew, Scully," he says, noting her   
skeptical look, "That woman was long gone by the time   
you met her. But before Sam was taken, my mother was   
very open and loving, and she protected us with the   
ferocity of a mother bear. I see that in Linda." He   
pauses, thoughtfully. "I donÕt have to tell you how   
losing a child can change a person, Scully. I hope she   
doesn't lose those qualities the way my mother did."

She listens, frowning, her thoughts jumbled and   
complicated. She doesn't want to hear about parallels   
and losses. The strain of keeping all her stories   
straight and her defenses armed has exhausted her.

"I was wondering about something else, too, after   
listening to some of the facts today," he continues.

In spite of herself, Scully raises an eyebrow at   
Mulder's speculation. So rare these days, she listens   
with amused interest.

"I'm wondering if there's any significance to Linda Van   
de Camp's infertility. And the fact that she was   
adopted," Mulder muses.

"Don't tell me you're thinking she's an abductee,   
Mulder." Scully rolls her eyes.

"I'm not saying she is. I'm just saying that it's   
interesting."

"Mulder, as much as you would like to blame alien   
abduction for all the ills of the world, not all   
infertile women are abductees," Scully sighs, "some are   
just infertile."

Mulder smiles.

********

In the middle of packing, they hear a clear, rhythmic   
knock on the door. Unaccustomed to visitors, they   
exchange wary looks. Mulder reaches for his gun.   
Scully opens the door to find a middle-aged Native   
American man. Najavo? Something about him is   
strangely familiar.

"Dana Scully?" he asks, catching Scully at a loss for   
an answer. 

Was she?

"You might remember my father. He spoke..." he pauses   
and smiles, "speaks highly of you."

Scully's still puzzled, but a flare of recognition   
begins to light.

"My name is Ernest Hosteen," he says, "I was asked to   
come here."

*******

One and one half wandering Jews  
Free to wander wherever they choose  
Are traveling together in the Sangre de Cristo  
The Blood of Christ Mountains in New Mexico.  
On the last leg of a journey   
They started a long time ago.  
The arc of a love affair,  
Rainbows in the high desert air.

\--Paul Simon, "Hearts and Bones"

******* end part 3 *********


	2. Geometry of Loss, The

Chapter 4

 

Epimenides' Paradox. 

The Liar's Paradox. Epimenides, the man of Crete, who   
asserted that "all Cretans are liars." Transcribed in   
Greek texts, quoted in the Christian Bible, debated for   
centuries by scholars and logicians... a puzzle posed by   
a mythical poet-philosopher who may or may not have ever   
lived. Some say he was a teacher, a healer, a guide.   
Some have called him a prophet, a shaman, a visionary.

And others have called him a liar.

The most romantic of the many tales surrounding him   
relates that Epimenides rested for years in a cave, deep   
in the bowels of the earth. Awakening from his long   
sleep, he found the world had changed dramatically   
around him, and he with it. Epimenides arose to the   
gift of prophecy, but declared himself a fraud.

But was that the ultimate honesty? Could anyone ever   
truly believe a man who deals in dreams and visions, who   
speaks to spirits, angels, demons, a host of the   
intangible?

Can I believe the ethereal images that pass before my   
eyes?

And when it comes to belief, can we ever really know   
what is truth? Is truth a fabrication or is the   
fabrication indeed truth? Or is blind faith the best we   
can hope for? Is this what was really meant by "trust   
no one"... or should our aim instead be to trust   
everyone? 

Yet despite all my shattered illusions, all the   
betrayals and broken dreams, I find that somehow... I   
still want to believe.

************

In her decade of life with Mulder, Dana Scully has seen   
more than her share of extraordinary occurrences. Some   
have shaken her faith, while others have restored her   
belief in the order of the universe. Although she   
harbors few regrets, she sometimes finds herself wistful   
for the easy sense of trust she used to possess, her old   
faith in the better nature of people. Years of   
deception and betrayal have taught her a philosophy of   
guilty until proven innocent. 

Tonight, as she appraises the stranger lurking in her   
doorway, instead of mourning her lost innocence, she   
prefers to consider it less about cynicism and more   
about survival.

"Ernest *Hosteen*?" Scully stares incredulously at the   
dark-haired man in front of her. "How do you know my   
name?"

Hosteen remains silent and motionless, scanning the   
room, his eyes resting finally on Mulder, who points a   
gun in his direction. 

"I think you'd better tell her," says Mulder firmly.

"Fox William Mulder," says Hosteen. "The FBI man. He   
has returned from the land of the dead... more than   
once... even though he will not speak of it."

"Spare us the history lesson. Tell us who you are and   
why you're here," demands Mulder. 

"I've told you, Mr. Mulder," replies Hosteen, stepping   
into the room. "My name is Ernest Hosteen. My father   
is Albert Hosteen, a man who has helped both you and   
your partner in the past."

"You speak of him as living," says Scully, "but Albert   
Hosteen passed away in 1999. I would think that his   
*son* would be aware of that fact."

"I never spoke of him as living," answers Hosteen. "My   
father has passed to the land of our ancestors... but   
still, he asked me to come here."

"I don't believe you," Scully says, freezing him with an   
icy glare. "Lift your arms over your head. Turn   
around." She slams the door closed, and the thud echoes   
along the cheap motel walls.

Hosteen glances at Mulder, who nods his head, his gun   
still raised.

Hosteen raises his hands and turns around slowly.   
Scully steps behind him, brushing his long black hair   
away from the nape of his neck. She examines the area   
closely, her fingers searching his skin, her breath   
tight in her throat.

She relaxes slightly, audibly exhales, and meets   
Mulder's gaze. "He appears to be clean. No sign of the   
nodule."

Mulder nods. "Well, at least we know he's not one of   
them." He puts his hand on Hosteen's shoulder and   
pulls, gesturing for him to turn back around. "Now tell   
us why you're here."

"I was asked to come here," repeats Hosteen, lowering   
his arms. "There is a missing boy... your son. You   
have the means to find him, but you must be shown. You   
need a guide."

"How have you connected us to this?" Scully asks,   
frowning.

Hosteen closes his eyes, and speaks low and laboriously.   
"My father... appeared to me. He told me about the two   
of you, specifically Mr. Mulder's dilemma. Said you   
needed my help." 

He opens his eyes and stares at Mulder. "You're seeing   
things, aren't you, Mr. Mulder? Seeing things you don't   
understand. Hearing voices, messages you can't   
comprehend. They're jumbled, frenetic, aren't they?   
Their motion causes you pain."

Scully watches as Mulder trembles slightly and begins to   
lower his gun. "Mulder! What the hell are you doing?"

"You've only told her part of it," Hosteen whispers,   
knowingly. "She doesn't know you're suffering."

Scully feels a sudden chill. "Mulder, what is he   
talking about?" She steps over to Mulder and touches   
his arm, looking into his eyes. "Are you seeing...   
hearing things again?"

She's not sure she wants to hear his answer.

"Scully," Mulder whispers, "I don't think I ever   
stopped."

************

Mulder passes beers around from a small cooler and   
offers Hosteen a battered chair covered with cracked   
leather. Scully leans against the wall, listening   
warily, as their visitor begins to speak. 

"I fought it, too, Mulder," Hosteen explains. "I'd had   
the visions since I was young, just like my father...   
but it was a burden I didn't want. When I went off to   
college -- Berkeley grad school by way of UNM -- I   
wanted to get as far away from tribal life as I could.   
Wasn't gonna be some crazy Indian on the reservation,   
talking to ghosts and spirits. Wasn't gonna sit around   
and watch my life be planned and regulated by whites. I   
turned my back on tribal ways. Went for an MBA, did   
corporate America, walked around in a fog for years and   
years, never realizing what was missing... but knowing   
there was a hole in my life that grew bigger everyday."   
He pauses, glancing at a shadowy corner of the room. 

"Then the visions started again, more intense than when   
I'd had them as a kid... scaring the hell out of me. So   
I set out to bury them any way I could. Sex, drugs,   
rock 'n' roll, whatever was out there. Typical running   
from reality. Then one night I was knocked flat on my   
back by my dead grandfather... and something else I   
couldn't quite explain... still don't know what the hell   
it was. They stepped out of the shadows and told me   
things that shook my world and changed my life. I came   
out of that trance ready to walk the path."

"The path?" Scully asks. "What path?"

He meets Mulder's eyes with a dark look. "The path of   
the shaman."

Scully tries to catch Mulder's gaze, but he's   
transfixed, looking somewhere beyond the small, dark man   
in front of them.

Hosteen continues. "What I'm talking about is a   
connection with higher consciousness---something that we   
are all capable of, but few of us can access easily. A   
shaman is merely someone who can harness that latent   
ability."

He narrows his eyes. "I was given a vision, a mission.   
They told me a great change was coming. Those who came   
before are returning. Those who gave us the spark of   
life, consciousness, our old wisdom, long ago. They   
asked only that we take care of this planet until their   
return... but we abandoned those ways long ago, and set   
ourselves on a path of destruction that threatens to   
destroy our world. In order to preserve the planet, the   
old ones will be forced to destroy us. But my   
grandfather told me that those who live by the old ways   
will be spared. He charged me with rediscovering this   
path, opening my mind to the messages, and finding a way   
to bridge the old and new to prepare for the future."

He takes a sip of his beer. "After that, I found others   
who shared my vision. No one who came was turned   
away... a gathering, if you will, of indigenous peoples-  
\--Hopi, Navajo---with what we call the other three   
races..."

Scully cuts him off with a low cough. "I hope you can   
understand that we might harbor a degree of skepticism,   
Mr. Hosteen," she says. "Our dealings with your father   
*were* limited, but we never heard him speak of you...   
or your... project."

Hosteen laughs. "Well, we weren't on the best of terms   
back then. In life, my father never understood what I   
was trying to do. He thought it was wrong for me to   
bring those who were not Navajo into my circle. We   
don't speak of our ways, our legends, with strangers.   
And there I was bringing whites, blacks, Asians,   
everybody into the mix... and talking about the end of   
the world. Dad thought he'd sent me to college and I'd   
lost my mind." He paused thoughtfully for a moment. "I   
guess I did."

"I can relate," says Mulder, with a laugh. Scully rolls   
her eyes.

Hosteen smiles. "We come together to move both backward   
and forward at once. To relearn, rekindle and redefine   
the old ways. I've come to believe that it's the only   
way to save ourselves, and make way for their return." 

"Do you mean aliens, Mr. Hosteen?" Scully asks, her   
eyebrow raised.

"No," he replies, "*alien* would imply that they are not   
of this world. They are Those Who Came Before. Some   
believe they brought us here... to the Fifth World."

"You're referring to the many legends of Southwestern   
tribes, a tradition that maintained that the world had   
been destroyed and reborn many times, with another   
imminent destruction to come," Mulder says. "There are   
many accounts of extraterrestrial visitors associated   
with these stories."

"But most stories have a basis in truth, don't they, Mr.   
Mulder?" says Hosteen. "For instance, you have learned   
quite recently of another ominous date, haven't you?"

"Yes," answers Mulder, "but there's no way of knowing   
whether that information is true or not... or what it   
really means for our future."

"Do you find it a coincidence that the date of December   
22, 2012 matches the end of the Aztec calendar?" Hosteen   
asks.

Scully has tried to be patient, but so much time has   
been wasted already. "I'm sure the two of you could swap   
apocalyptic theories all night long," she says angrily,   
"but none of this is relevant to the problem at hand." 

She locks eyes with Hosteen, and folds her arms across   
her chest. "You said you were sent to help us find our   
son. I want to know how you propose to do that."

Hosteen breathes deeply, closing his eyes again. "Your   
faith lies in investigation, analysis." He opens his   
eyes, focusing on Scully. "This will be of no use here.   
Those who have taken your son do not wish to be found...   
and have the resources to hide as long as needed. To   
find your son, you must turn to alternative methods."

"Dammit! If you know where he is..." Scully suddenly   
raises her voice. Mulder places his hand on her   
shoulder, silencing her with a look. Setting her jaw   
stubbornly, she listens.

"I do not know where your son is being held, Ms.   
Scully," Hosteen says softly. "I wish I did. I can   
only sense what surrounds him... darkness, power,   
danger."

"How are we supposed to find him, then?" Mulder asks.

"As his father, you have a bond, a connection to him,   
that I do not have. You've caught glimpses of him over   
the past months, haven't you?" Hosteen asks.

Mulder nods slowly, as Scully stares at him in   
disbelief.

*Mulder, why haven't you told me?*

"You must draw on that connection to focus your sight,   
to find him. I can help you learn this. You have the   
gift, Mr. Mulder," says Hosteen solemnly. "My father   
saw it. That's why he helped you years ago, why he   
brought you back. It's why he worked so hard to make   
sure that you would not be destroyed by those men. He   
knew that when you were ready, your gifts would emerge."

Scully flashes to a memory she'd almost forgotten.   
Mulder missing, dying, voices in his head. Whispered   
prayers, kneeling with Albert Hosteen in her living   
room. She learned later that he had died days before. 

*There are more worlds than the one you can hold in your   
hand.* 

"Are you talking about the visions I'm experiencing?"   
Mulder asks, feeling suddenly wary.

"It's always been in you. It's why you were so good at   
your job. How you could profile all those people, feel   
what they felt, and still come back to yourself,"   
Hosteen explains.

"Well, I don't know about that," Mulder admits.

"Don't doubt what you know, you feel, to be true. This   
appears in all cultures. The language used for it just   
depends on your background. Some call it the second   
sight, some call it ESP, some of my people call it   
shamanism. That is, if you believe in that kind of   
thing." Hosteen grins as Mulder raises an eyebrow.

"Oh boy," Scully mutters under her breath, and she can   
feel her unease growing, that familiar disbelief rising   
and crystallizing once again. 

*********

Scully has listened as long as she possibly can, with a   
growing sense of anxiety. She's always been unnerved by   
the way Mulder can be so easily seduced by the right   
words, the right subject matter. Bringing him back to   
earth has always been her role, but she feels this is a   
path they've walked far too many times.

"Mulder, can I talk to you for a minute?" Scully asks, a   
command in her inflection. She heads to the door and   
Mulder follows.

The night is calm, dark and starry, but clouds are   
gathering in the far corners of the sky. Scully hears   
the low rumble of thunder in the distance.

"I don't know about this, Mulder," Scully whispers. "He   
sounds like a drug-addled, breakaway religious fanatic.   
I don't think he can help us find William... and the   
last thing we need is to get mixed up with another   
charismatic leader of a crazed UFO cult."

"I don't think that's what this guy is about," Mulder   
counters.

"How do you know, Mulder... because he's brought up   
visions and shamanism and contact with aliens? Has he   
pushed the right buttons, said your magic words?"

"You've got to admit, Scully, he's put his finger on   
exactly what I've been experiencing over the last year."

"Mulder, you're not a shaman!" Scully's voice raises   
suddenly, startling her, and she abruptly returns to   
whispering. "Mulder, my opinion is that your 'visions',   
or whatever they are, have far more to do with repressed   
post-traumatic stress disorder than any mystic sources."

She reaches up and gently strokes his cheek. "You were   
abducted, Mulder---tortured, maimed, left for dead. You   
spent three months buried, barely alive. You lost   
nearly a year of your life." She bites her lower lip,   
her eyes wet. "And we've never dealt with that. You've   
never dealt with how that changed your life, how that   
affected you. How it affected us."

"You mean in the same way you worked through *your*   
abduction, Scully?" he answers, remaining perfectly   
still while she flinches. "We've never dealt with   
anything on a deep level before," he says, coolly, "why   
should we start now?"

He brushes past her, back into the hotel room, while she   
remains outside, lifting her gaze to the stars, feeling   
the weight of things left undone and unsaid.

**********

Scully draws a deep breath, rubbing her arms against the   
approaching chill. She exhales slowly, reaches into her   
jacket pocket for her cell phone, and taps in a number.   
She closes her eyes as she puts the phone to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Monica," says Scully, her voice low.

"Dana!" Monica Reyes's voice is earnest, eager,   
concerned. Scully immediately considers hanging up the   
phone, wondering if this is indeed a good idea.

"No," she replies coolly, "you must have me confused   
with someone else. My name is Deborah Newland. I'm an   
old friend of Melvin Frohike. Perhaps you remember   
him?"

The silence is deafening for a moment, until Monica   
finally speaks. "Ohh... Deborah..." Scully hears   
understanding seep into Monica's voice and she begins to   
relax, but only slightly.

"We saw the report on your---the boy," Monica says,   
carefully. "You must be... concerned."

"Yes, but I think we're on top of the situation. One of   
my reasons for calling, Agent Reyes, is to confirm that   
you and Agent Doggett are still in your former   
positions."

"Not exactly," admits Monica. "Our former department   
was dissolved, for lack of a better word. We considered   
leaving the Bureau initially, but ultimately decided   
there were those who might benefit from our resources."   
She exhales dramatically. "We accepted a demotion, so   
Agent Doggett and I have been reassigned to domestic   
terrorism. It's the hot thing right now," she chuckles.   
"Sound familiar?"

Scully suppresses a bittersweet laugh. "I should have   
expected as much. Monica, I'd like you to do a   
background check for me. Is that possible?"

"I *live* for background checks these days," she   
replies. Scully can sense the wry humor behind Monica's   
glibness and for a moment, she deeply misses this woman   
she knew for only a short time.

Scully steals a quick glance through the window, where   
Mulder and Hosteen sit, still talking. "The name is   
Ernest Hosteen," she whispers. "That's all I have to go   
on. Can you run that through and I'll call you in the   
next few days for results?"

"I can handle that," Monica says, "and Deborah... take   
care."

********

Mulder sits in a plastic chair on the tiny patio outside   
their motel room. Ernest Hosteen has left, leaving him   
with an uneasy sense of intrigue. Scully's gone to bed,   
but he's too agitated to follow. A day too full of   
highs and lows, too much emotional baggage to carry   
forward... some of which he's directly responsible for.   
He hopes she'll be able to sleep it off. 

He knows he gets caught up in their old believer-skeptic   
game at times, and wonders if he relies on it because   
he's not sure how to define what they've become. He   
forgets how much pain and frustration it can cause   
Scully. There's nowhere to run from each other now when   
things get tense, no separate apartments, no office at   
Quantico. Most days, there are only four motel walls,   
or perhaps a car, and all their shared joys and sorrows.

Earlier, he went in to check on her. Already asleep,   
her face had relaxed with a softness he rarely sees   
anymore. The warmth, the silk of her skin made him   
tremble as he bent down to brush her cheek, whispering,   
"I'm sorry, Scully."

When in doubt, Scully can always count on the comfort of   
sleep. He's always found that one of her most endearing   
qualities, one he most envies. Although he and insomnia   
have negotiated an uneasy truce over the past year,   
Mulder still turns his back on slumber in uncertain   
times. 

"You *can* trust him, you know." 

Behind him, Mulder hears a familiar gravelly voice   
drifting on the slight breeze, and he smiles in spite of   
his black mood.

"Yeah, *we* trust him... and you know we're the most   
paranoid entities in the afterlife," says a more nasal   
voice, its inherent cockiness evident even in the   
shadows.

Mulder stands up, spinning around, "Well, if it isn't   
the Three Fates? Life, Destiny and... Doc."

"Always a pleasure to haunt you, Mulder," smirks Langly,   
long blond hair contrasting with the blackness.

"Where have you guys been?" Mulder asks. "I keep   
getting creepy visits from Krycek. If I'm going to   
hallucinate, I'd much rather it be dead people I like."

"Well, we would have been here sooner if Frohike didn't   
spend all his time trailing Marilyn Monroe and Jayne   
Mansfield," says Langly.

"Purely journalistic interest..." protests Frohike,   
"lots of secrets there."

"Mysteries of the ages," laughs Mulder.

Frohike turns and glares at Mulder with customary   
vinegar and bluster. "You know this fairy godmother gig   
isn't what it's all cracked up to be. You could at least   
take us seriously... especially when we appear to you   
all ominously."

"C'mon, Frohike, the only omen you guys ever represented   
was the certain end of a bad party."

"Seriously, Mulder," says Byers, stepping into the   
light, "we've been sent to tell you that, despite your   
fears to the contrary, Ernie Hosteen is here to help   
you."

"For real," adds Langly.

"You're conspicuously lacking in friends and allies, my   
man," agrees Frohike. "Those funds and fake I.D.'s I   
set you up with will only get you so far."

"Losing my kung fu was a major blow," Langly says, "but   
you seem to be learning a few tricks. Still it won't   
hurt to have someone on your side."

"Scully thinks he's a wacko," Mulder says.

"Scully thinks everyone's a wacko," Frohike replies.   
"It's part of her charm."

"What about William?" Mulder asks. "Do you have any   
information about him?"

"Our consciousness is limited, Mulder. I'm afraid we   
don't have any answers for you." Byers shakes his head   
sadly.

"We're on a need-to-know basis," says Langly.

"And what we know is," Frohike says, "Ernie can help you   
figure out how to channel these visions you're having.   
They can lead you to William."

"Scully thinks I'm going crazy." Mulder closes his   
eyes. "*I* think I'm going crazy."

"Not much of a trip, man," laughs Langly. He effects a   
casual salute. "Listen, we gotta blow this joint.   
Later, Mulder."

"Sorry to do this to you, buddy, but it's an unfortunate   
side effect. It's gonna feel like a bad trip for a   
little while, but hold on, it'll be over soon." Frohike   
waves goodbye, as the Gunmen begin to dissipate.

"See you soon," Byers says brightly, as if they were   
just leaving Mulder's old apartment and heading for the   
Radio Shack down the street.

Mulder takes a deep breath and steels himself for the   
inevitable head rush. Too uncontrollable, too violent to   
enjoy, the abrupt sensation sends him to his knees,   
buckling under its force. He notes briefly that it is   
getting worse, before that thought, too, is ripped away,   
his mind no longer his own, simply a vessel for   
swirling, incomprehensible images. 

Awash in a sea of reds, greens, blues, spinning too fast   
for his conscious mind to process, one image flashes to   
the forefront. Weathered, withered hands brushing soft,   
pink skin. Plump cheeks, reddish curls. The image   
shifts slightly upward, like a camera panning the scene. 

A split second glimpse of a chubby face. 

"William..." Mulder murmurs as his head hits the ground.

*******  
In this house of make believe  
Divided in two, like Adam and Eve  
You put out and I receive  
Down by the railway siding  
In our secret world, we were colliding  
In all the places we were hiding love  
What was it we were thinking of?

\--Peter Gabriel, "Secret World"

*******end Chapter 4*********


	3. Geometry of Loss, The

Chapter 5

In a while, one of us will go up to bed  
and the other one will follow.  
Then we will slip below the surface of the night  
into miles of water, drifting down and down  
to the dark, soundless bottom  
until the weight of dreams pulls us lower still.  
~ Billy Collins, The Art of Drowning

 

***The ancient Celts told of a warrior queen called Rhiannon, a   
horsewoman goddess who could not be caught nor tamed by any man.   
Rather than accept a future she did not desire, Rhiannon found her   
own path, and a man of her own choosing.

When Dana Scully came into my life all those years ago, she put me   
in mind of this story. Another fierce, Celtic warrior woman defying   
expectations and finding her own way, I could easily imagine her   
dashing along the green hills on a grand horse, fiery hair flying   
behind her, her blue eyes flashing like a polished blade.

And when I realized that Scully had chosen my path---chosen me---I   
felt as if I had won a goddess.

But there is a tragic side to Rhiannon's story. Her infant son   
vanished under mysterious circumstances, and Rhiannon's treacherous   
waiting women conspired to hide the truth by making it appear that   
she had killed her own son. As punishment, she was consigned to sit   
outside the castle and tell her story to the passersby. Like the   
birds she loved, she sang her song of loss for seven years, reliving   
its pain and injustice, a living hell for a mother.

Why would such a powerful woman accept such an unjust fate? Did the   
loss itself engender a crushing guilt along with grief?

Now our son is lost, and his mother fears she has sentenced him to   
death. But although no one is punishing Scully, she bears a burden   
of her own making.***

**********

It's just past dawn, and when Dana steps out of her room and into   
the hallway, the air is redolent of cinnamon, coffee, and the earthy   
scent of bacon frying. Carefully, quietly, she creeps downstairs,   
hoping to catch a bit of early morning conversation before the   
others awaken, and perhaps a bite of her mother's freshly baked   
French toast souffle. 

From the corner of her eye, she catches the twinkle of white lights,   
switched on already, and smiles at her mother's childlike delight   
for the trappings of the holiday. Christmas has always been   
Maggie's favorite.

Until a few years ago, Dana shared her sentiments. Now Christmas is   
forever tinged with the melody of loss. Each carol an elegy. Each   
candle a prayer.

Reaching the bottom stair, she hears voices whispering near the   
tree. She's surprised that someone besides herself and her mother   
would be up at this hour. Even Matthew has reached an age at which   
he can sleep in on Christmas morning. With a mixture of curiosity   
and mischief, Dana sneaks toward the tree.

As she steps closer, the lights illuminate a shock of wavy red hair,   
a woman's figure wrapped in seasonal crimson, her back to Dana, a   
smaller figure beside her. And Dana's breath catches in her throat   
as they turn to face her.

"Good morning, Dana," says Melissa.

Emily's face is solemn, her voice low and hushed. "Everyone's here,   
Mommy."

"No," says Melissa, raising an eyebrow. "Not everyone."

Emily gazes at Dana with dark, searching eyes. "Where's my brother,   
Mommy? He should be here."

Dana raises her hand to her mouth. "God...Emily..." she breathes.   
And she reaches for her daughter, but the little girl fades before   
her eyes, vanishing slowly with the rhythm of the blinking lights.

"Open your eyes, Dana," says Melissa. "The truth is in front of   
you." Her eyes are at once blank, pleading, commanding. The stare   
of an oracle. 

"Can't you see they both need you?"

"Missy..." Dana whispers, her eyes wet, "I'm lost."

Melissa's gaze softens. "You haven't lost your way, Dana. You've   
only misplaced it." She extends a pale hand and strokes her   
sister's hair. "Open your eyes," she repeats as she vanishes,   
fading into the pinprick of a tiny bulb.

Dana focuses on the tree, its miniature lights blurring into one   
white beacon. The room itself folds and vanishes, leaving Dana   
utterly alone against a colorless background. She crumbles to the   
floor. 

A scream pierces the silence, and the white room vibrates, the sound   
rocking Dana with its fury and need. "Scuuuulllyyyy!!!"

*********

"Mulder!" Scully shouts, jerking her head from the pillow.   
Suddenly, violently awake, the blinking neon of the nearby truck   
stop the only light in the room. She glances over her shoulder and   
anxiously pats the other side of the bed with her hand. 

"Mulder?" she calls into the darkness.

She waits. "Mulder?"

She checks the clock beside the bed. 2:18 AM. He was outside when   
she went to bed, and she knows he still could be awake, torturing   
himself about their earlier argument. Yet the rawness of her dream   
has left her heart pounding with a profound sense of terror.

There's a chill in the air as she climbs out of bed and moves across   
the room.

She turns on the light to the patio, and through the glare of the   
glass, her eyes lock on Mulder, face down on the concrete slab, a   
halo of scarlet surrounding his head.

"Mulder!"

*******

He is floating. High above the mesas and canyons and ghost towns of   
the Wild West. There are stars scattered across the midnight   
blanket of the prairie and he could touch them if he wished. The   
wind kisses his skin and he floats higher into the dark sky. He   
wants to go on flying like this, forgetting the torture of pain and   
shadows.

But somewhere below, she is still there.

*********

"Mulder, can you hear me?" She dips the cloth into warm water   
again, turning the liquid from a pale pink to a light crimson. It's   
a scrape, an impact wound, but his unresponsiveness worries her.   
She knows he would be more comfortable on the bed, but dragging his   
limp body from the cold patio to the floor inside was the best she   
could manage.

She applies more pressure, and when the bleeding seems to lessen,   
she reaches for antibiotic cream before bandaging the area.   
"Mulder," she whispers, gently tapping his cheeks.

"Scu..." he breathes, slowly shifting his head, although his eyes   
remain closed.

She smiles with relief. "Can you open your eyes?"

His eyes flutter in response. "Mulder, you've fallen and lost   
consciousness. I don't think you have a concussion, but you've   
given yourself a nasty head wound. Do you remember what happened?"

He gazes at her through heavy lids. His voice is muffled, eyes   
blurry. "Saw the Gunmen... everything, nothing... him... falling...   
then I was flying..."

She gently strokes his cheek. "You don't have to talk right now,   
Mulder. Just lie still."

"Still flying," he says, clearly this time. "It's all fading.   
Something's pulling me away, Scully. Where are you?" 

He fixes her with a searching gaze that pierces her heart, a gaze   
filled with need, pain, and inexplicable desire. Scully's breath   
catches as she meets his stare, finding that although his eyes are   
still glassy, unfocused, they shine darkly, pools of obsidian. She   
can't see Mulder in their depths, only herself reflected, amber   
light amid his shadows.

"I need you. I need to feel that you're real," he whispers,   
bringing his lips to hers. She closes her eyes and inhales softly,   
believing this is the last thing he needs. He's hurt, outside   
himself. She wants to hold him, shelter him, try to chase his   
demons away, not avoid it all again through physicality.

But now his mouth is on her neck, flooding her with heat and a   
delicious chill. Her eyes are wet as she realizes they share the   
same demons now. She is too close to drive them away... but she can   
give him this. So she runs her fingers through his soft hair and   
kisses him with a fervor that makes her head spin. 

She hasn't touched him like this in over a week, not since the news   
of their son. 

It feels like a lifetime.

The blurry softness in Mulder is gone, as if a match has been   
struck. Suddenly he is intent, focused, a surging force that sweeps   
her under. Her tears burn her cheeks as his mouth and hands sear   
her flesh. The flames spread down her torso, teasing as they singe.

She lets him consume her.

******

An insistent pounding at the door arouses Scully from a fitful   
sleep. She glances at Mulder, deeply and soundly asleep, and   
spreads the blanket to cover his shoulders. With bleary eyes and   
fumbling hands, she reaches under the bed for her weapon. She finds   
her robe draped haphazardly over a chair and slips it on, tucking   
the gun inside a crease.

There is no peephole on the thin door, so she draws a long breath   
before turning the doorknob with her left hand, her right poised   
above the gun concealed at her waist. She finds Linda Van de Camp   
in mid-knock.

Her posture is rigid, her dark hair tousled, not the smooth waves   
Scully saw yesterday. Scully notes the worry etched on Linda's brow   
and the hint of fear in her eyes. She drops her right hand from her   
waist and relaxes slightly.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Newland," she says. "I didn't mean to wake you. I   
should have called, but I'm just not thinking clearly this morning."

Scully runs a hand through her hair, brushing errant strands out of   
her eyes. "It's okay, Ms. Van de Camp. What do you need?"

"Something's happened, Deborah," Linda replies.

"Something with William?" 

"No, not exactly. Is there somewhere we can talk?" Linda looks   
nervously behind her.

"David's still sleeping, so I'd rather not leave," Scully says. "We   
had a difficult night. There's a patio in the back, if you don't   
mind the cold." Linda nods, and she motions for her to come inside.   
She quietly directs her to the sliding door at the back of the room.   
Grabbing a thick shirt, a pair of jeans and running shoes, Scully   
quickly enters the bathroom and throws them on. She slips her   
weapon in the top of her jeans.

Linda sits, staring at the cracked concrete of the patio slab when   
Scully steps through the door. She closes it as slowly and softly   
as she can, giving one last wistful peek at Mulder's motionless   
form. She notices a brown patch of dried blood in front of the   
empty chair, and purses her lips as she sits down.

"Some men came to our ranch this morning," Linda announces. 

Scully feels a sudden chill. "Yes?"

"They said they were from a branch of the CIA." Linda meets Scully's   
eye hesitantly. "They gave us some information...about you. And   
your...partner."

"And what did they tell you?" Scully asks coolly.

"They said they knew you were in the area. That they'd been   
tracking your movements. They told us you were rogue FBI agents,   
fugitives from a murder conviction. You broke your partner out of a   
federal prison after he killed a CIA agent and you've been on the   
run for over a year."

Scully closes her eyes, rubbing her temple. "Linda..."

"They told us not to give you any information about William. That   
we should contact them if we saw you again. Deborah, I need to know   
how much of this is true."

"Are you sure they were CIA? Did they give you anything to confirm   
that? A card? Names? Somewhere to reach them?"

"Joe has that. He wouldn't let me take it. He doesn't know I came   
here. He thinks I'm at the station, giving them my statement about   
what we heard this morning... and yesterday, from you."

"Is that where you're going next?" 

"I don't know," Linda whispers. She stares at Scully for a moment.   
"Your name isn't Deborah Newland, is it?"

"No," Scully admits, "it's not. But you know that already, don't   
you?"

"Dana Scully and Fox Mulder. Former Special Agents with the FBI."   
Linda laughs bitterly. "According to those men, Mr. Mulder was a   
problem for the FBI for years. They said he devoted his entire   
career to chasing aliens. That he staged his death a number of   
times, disobeyed protocol, misappropriated funds, was responsible   
for reckless losses of lives... and that he dragged you into his   
madness." She throws her head back. "Killers in my living room."

"We're not killers, Linda," Scully says. "Would you be here if you   
believed that?"

"I don't know what to believe right now," Linda says, a tear falling   
down her cheek. "Everything you said yesterday... I don't know   
which parts are true and which are lies. But I want to believe that   
you were telling me the truth about William. I don't want to think   
that you could manufacture that."

Scully sighs. She's sick of lies, weary of the tangled web they   
must maintain in order to survive. In her darkest moments, she   
fears they are becoming the very thing they have fought against all   
these years.

She reaches over and takes Linda's hand. "They were right...about   
some things. My name is Dana Scully. I'm a pathologist and former   
special agent. And the man in there is not legally my husband, but   
he is my partner, in every sense of the word. His name *is* Fox   
Mulder, and it's true that he was a thorn in the side of the FBI,   
the federal government and just about any institution he came across   
\--- but he is not a murderer. For the last decade, we've been on a   
journey that I don't think I could explain if I tried. What I told   
you yesterday was true. We made powerful enemies... and they would   
use any tool necessary to silence us." 

Scully looks away. "Why we've survived this long is a question I   
can't answer."

Scully can see that Linda is shaken, but she does not move from her   
chair, so she continues. "You need to know that William *is* our   
son. And I let him go for his protection. Now that he's been taken   
from you, Mulder and I will do whatever we have to do to find him." 

Linda swallows audibly. "What does that mean? I love my little   
boy, but this... I've never been this scared before. I don't know   
who to trust, what to do."

Scully feels a brittle familiarity in Linda's words, but pushes it   
away. "I can't tell you who to trust. You either do or you don't.   
However, my fear is that by coming here and meeting with you, we   
have jeopardized the safety of you and your husband. I pressed to   
come here. It was bad judgment, but I needed to see where he had   
been."

Linda softens and gives Scully a small smile. "I never knew my   
birth mother, Ms. Scully, but I always wanted to believe that if   
something happened to me, she'd be there if she could. I know why   
you came here."

Scully nods, but she's back to business. "We can't be certain that   
you met with actual CIA agents this morning. Do you and Joe have   
somewhere else you can go? I would advise that you leave town for a   
few days until we can be certain that you are safe."

"I don't want to go anywhere, Ms. Scully," Linda argues. "What if   
something happens with William and I'm not here to take the call?   
Joe thinks we need to wait this out and not speak with anyone unless   
they go through the local police first."

"That's something between you and your husband," Scully says.   
"Obviously, someone knows we're here, so Mulder and I will be   
leaving today. We have leads to follow, but it's certainly in your   
best interest that we go."

******

Mulder's forehead throbs when he lifts it from the pillow. He   
fingers the bandage on his temple and remembers the swirling nausea   
of the previous night. He reaches for Scully beside him, but finds   
only rumpled sheets at his side. Fragments of the evening return to   
him, and then he remembers pulling her to him insistently, thrusting   
against her, letting her draw him back into this world, and he   
remembers her tears as she gave herself to him.

Shit.

He pulls on his jeans and grabs a shirt. Outside the glass doors,   
he sees her sitting, staring ahead at the point where the asphalt   
meets prairie. The door squeaks loudly, too loudly, when he pushes   
it open, but she doesn't turn around.

"Scully, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Mulder." Her hair is growing out, red streaks peeking   
through the chestnut color. That glimpse of his old Scully   
reassures him somehow, even when she won't make eye contact.

He places a hand on her shoulder, daring her to flinch. She doesn't   
move.

"Scully, did I hurt you... last night?"

"Mulder, I'm fine," she repeats, then she turns to glare at him. "I   
need to know what is really going on with you. Your visions, or   
whatever you're experiencing, aren't just random occurrences, are   
they?"

He doesn't answer.

"Hosteen was right, wasn't he? They're getting worse. You fell   
last night, Mulder. I don't know how long you were unconscious...   
and when you came to... Mulder, you were out of your head."

"Scully, you didn't have to..." he cups her cheek.

She gently brushes his hand away. "Mulder, I'm not even talking   
about that. Being with you made me feel as if we were connecting   
again, although I'm not so sure you were ready for it."

He smiles and runs a hand through his rumpled hair. "Didn't hear   
any complaints."

Scully narrows her eyes. "Don't change the subject, Mulder. Last   
night, you told Ernest Hosteen that you've been having visions of   
William. Is that true?"

Mulder crouches beside Scully's chair and looks into her eyes.   
"They're just flashes, Scully. I don't even know what to make of   
them."

"How long has this been going on?"

He looks away. "For a long time. Maybe since I left. After   
William was born."

Scully sighs and Mulder cringes inside.

"So... what do you see... when you see our son?" she finally asks.

"Glimpses, Scully." He touches his bandaged forehead. "I see   
William, but only for an instant. I see everything... and nothing.   
It's too much for me to process."

"Why haven't you told me about this?" Her pained expression tugs at   
him.

"You wouldn't have believed me, Scully."

"You didn't give me the opportunity, Mulder," she says, looking   
away. "This is not just about you. It's about our son. It's about   
us." She places a small hand on his arm and he shivers at her   
touch. "Your health is being affected, and you're all I have left.   
You've had abnormal brain activity in the past, and this could be a   
recurrence. I don't know how to work it out, but we need to find   
some way for you to be examined."

Mulder interrupts. "Scully, last night, before I blacked out, I saw   
William again. Someone was with him."

She stops and listens. "And what do you think this means?"

"I'm not sure. I think I need to follow up with Hosteen and some of   
the things we addressed last night."

"Mulder, I still have my doubts about the man. Don't you think we   
should work through more conventional channels first?" 

Mulder takes a deep breath. He doesn't have the strength to argue   
this morning. "Scully, we went beyond conventional channels at   
least a year ago. I can't control this on my own. I need help from   
someone who has experienced this."

"So you'll trust a stranger with something you've only shared with   
me in the last 24 hours." Scully's voice is low and strained and he   
can only listen as she gathers her composure and begins to speak   
again.

"There's something you should know, Mulder," Scully says. "Linda   
Van de Camp spoke with me this morning. Men identifying themselves   
as CIA agents visited their ranch this morning and basically exposed   
our story, with some added details, of course."

"And?"

"Someone knows we're here, Mulder. We can't stay in Wyoming any   
longer. We're putting ourselves and the Van de Camps at risk."

"I told you someone was flushing us out, but it's not the CIA." He   
pauses, a million thoughts rushing through his head. "We shouldn't   
have gotten so close to William's home. We know better than that."   
He flashes a glance at Scully and immediately regrets it. Her   
defensive expression tells him not to pursue the issue.

He turns and opens the patio door, pushes his way inside and throws   
on socks and shoes, a fleece pullover. "Scully," he calls. "We're   
going to Cody. Hosteen's staying in a hotel there. I'm ready to   
try some of his techniques to focus what I'm seeing."

"Mulder, this is crazy!" Scully pushes the door closed with a loud   
creak. "You're having blackouts, we've got people on our tail, a   
couple who could expose us to law enforcement at any moment, and you   
want to have a meeting with a cult leader in the next town over."

Mulder turns, catching Scully's shoulders with both hands. He looks   
into her eyes. "I don't have anything left but hunches and   
feelings. They don't want us to find William, but I think the truth   
is somewhere in front of us. Looking inside is the only way."

Scully doesn't say anything in reply, but Mulder feels her soften   
under his grip. He releases her shoulders and pulls her into an   
embrace, hoping that can give her an assurance he can't express.

******

The day has warmed considerably, and they drive through the prairie   
to Cody in relative silence. The decision is made, and although   
Scully has her misgivings, in the absence of direction she's willing   
to let Mulder follow this through.

The clerk at Hosteen's hotel is busy for early afternoon. He   
processes several checkouts before turning to Mulder's impatient   
gaze. "How may I help you, sir?"

"Would it be possible to obtain a room number for a guest?" he asks.

"Certainly, sir. Name?"

"Ernest Hosteen."

The clerk taps keys rhythmically. "I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Hosteen   
checked out early this morning."

"Did he leave any messages, by any chance?"

He looks at the screen. "Nothing here, but if you have a moment,   
I'll be glad to check for you in the out boxes."

Mulder nods. Scully looks restlessly around the lobby of the hotel.   
Marble floors, dark wood railings, old brass accents. There's an   
ancient switchboard system on the wall, a relic of the past.   
Historic landmark, probably. It reminds her of grand old buildings   
in Virginia or Maryland, but with an Old West flavor.

The clerk returns with a small package. "Mr. Hosteen left this for   
a David Newland. Would that be you?"

"Yes," Mulder replies.

"He requested that your I.D. be checked. Would you mind?"

Mulder shakes his head and pulls out David Newland's driver's   
license. Even in her black mood, Scully knows better than to look,   
since she always grins uncontrollably when she sees the goatee   
Frohike brushed on to Mulder's photo. She busies herself with   
travel brochures while the clerk compares Mulder's photo to the man   
in front of him.

"Sc...honey, check this out," Mulder says, walking towards her. He   
hands a photocopied sheet to her.

"A map. To where?"

"It's a location in the Four Corners region. An area that's been   
known in some circles as an apex between worlds," Mulder says, with   
a hint of a smirk.

Scully raises an eyebrow. "Do you think this is Hosteen's home, or   
compound?"

"Not sure, but I think that's where he wants us to go." He gives   
her another paper, a solemn expression on his face. "There's   
something else."

Scully examines the paper. A gray rubbing, raised marks,   
unidentifiable symbols and scrawls, broken edges outlined by careful   
pencil strokes. She slowly looks up and meets Mulder's eyes.

"We've seen this before, Scully."

*The artifact.*

And she remembers Mulder locked away, screaming her name in a small   
white room. Plagues, portents and miracles, continents and oceans   
away. A lifetime ago. Hushed whispers, 'Some truths are not for   
you.'

She's never told him how she once lost William, only to find him   
amid pillars of fire, the only survivor of a burning massacre.   
Whether he was the reason for the tragedy---or its instrument---is   
something she can't bring herself to consider. 

But she knows that a fine layer of scar tissue formed around her   
heart that night. 

He was ripped away, so suddenly, despite her best efforts to protect   
him, and she realized to her horror that there would have been no   
way to prevent it. It was then that she fears she placed her son in   
that category she always reserved for Mulder. Hers, but not hers.   
Subject to the capriciousness of the universe, fleeting and   
ephemeral.

Was this when she began building the wall, protecting herself, as   
she'd done so often in the past? Was this the moment when her heart   
began to harden? The moment she began to realize that her fate was   
to let him go?

"Look on the back, Scully," Mulder says. So she turns the page over   
and begins to read.

"'There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that,   
when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they   
bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old,   
men of renown.'" She glances at him. "A translation? That's   
Genesis, again, Mulder."

"Yes," he answers. "A verse used by Erich von Daniken and others to   
cite evidence of ancient extraterrestrial visitations."

"A little obvious, don't you think?" she says.

She doesn't read aloud the next line, written in Hosteen's hasty   
scrawl. 'Open your eyes.'

******

The ring echoes through the cavernous chamber. The dreadful,   
electronic sound of a digital phone, he thinks, suddenly nostalgic   
for the rich, full tones of rotary telephones. 

Across the room a ginger-haired toddler plays with a set of plastic   
blocks. The structure he's building appears quite advanced for a   
two-year old, he notes. Smiling with a mixture of amusement and   
pride, he pauses to check the number displayed on the phone before   
picking it up. 

He doesn't bother to greet his caller. "Yes," he says. "I see.   
Quite an interesting development, although I expected as much by   
this point."

He stares at the child for a moment. "It appears that your parents   
are on their way, my boy."

******

Something unusual, something strange  
Comes from nothing at all  
But I'm not a miracle  
And you're not a saint  
Just another soldier  
On the road to nowhere

~ Damien Rice - "Amie"


	4. Geometry of Loss, The

Chapter 6

**There is a legend among my people of a powerful   
goddess called Changing Woman, who helped the Dine to   
establish a place to dwell when we arrived in the Fifth   
World. The world was full of monsters and terrors and   
the People fought for survival.

Changing Woman united with the Sun and gave birth to a   
powerful son we called Monster Slayer, who together with   
his father, helped to rid the world of its dangers.

The Sun loved Changing Woman with all his fiery heart   
and power, and longed for her to live with him always in   
his realm. But Changing Woman knew her place was rooted   
in the soil of the earth where she must change with the   
seasons. She could not leave the People who depended on   
her. Rather than lose her lover forever, she sought a   
more equal relationship. "We are of one spirit, my   
love," she told him. She would remain on earth where   
she was needed, where his light would forever shine,   
warming her heart and soul, a harmonious union.

I have charged my son with the task of aiding another   
union of opposites, one on which the fate of the world   
may hang. The FBI man and woman have their own demons   
to slay, some from within and some from without. I pray   
that they are both strong enough to listen to the voices   
that guide them.***

*****

There's an insistent buzzing in Mulder's head that's   
been steadily increasing since they hit the Colorado   
border. Waves of alternating dizziness and nausea   
assault his senses, but he grips the steering wheel for   
stability, flashing anxious glances at the pencil   
smudged paper on the seat between them. 

"Are you okay, Mulder?" Scully asks. Her voice sounds   
far away and muffled below the din in his mind. 

Voices in his head again. Shit. As if seeing ghosts   
wasn't already bad enough.

He hears snippets of thoughts from passengers, drivers   
in every car they pass, scattered impressions that he   
has no business hearing; but they come to him just the   
same. *rockymountainshatethisdrivewhendowestop* But the   
thoughts that come to him most clearly are the most   
immediate.

Hers.

*he'ssickwhat'swrongshouldn'tdrivehe'ssickwhatdoido*

He's tired of causing her worry. All these years...   
hasn't there been enough fear and apprehension? There's   
a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach when he   
considers what her life has become at his hands. He   
wants to shield her from it any way he can. He flips   
over the paper, hiding the side with the artifact   
rubbing in favor of the map; as if obscuring the image   
will cure him. 

He wants it to be that simple.

"Getting a headache. And I'm tired. That's all," he   
replies.

"I've said it before, Mulder, and I'll say it again... I   
don't think you need to be driving. You have a head   
injury," she states with a frown.

"You've driven for the last few hours. It's my turn."   
He hopes he's not shouting, but it's difficult to tell.

"Pull over," she commands. And for the first time   
today, overwhelmed with a sudden fatigue, he doesn't   
argue. 

Scully raises an eyebrow as he walks around the car,   
rubbing his temple. She slides into the driver seat,   
adjusting the position until she's comfortable. He   
smiles, as he often does, at their size difference, and   
he's amazed all over again that this tiny but remarkable   
woman would take on the world for him. 

He watches her check the map again, and adjust the rear   
view mirror. He mumbles a soft "Thanks, Scully..."

Her smile is the last thing he sees before he falls   
asleep.

*****

When he opens his eyes, he is standing in a green and   
verdant field that shimmers with lilies and fragrant   
white flowers. He sees hills in the distance, and there   
is sunlight so overwhelming that he shades his eyes with   
his hand. 

He hears the sound of a voice drifting softly across the   
breeze. "Fox."

He turns, his eyes locking on a familiar figure.

"Diana." She's prettier than he remembers, but then   
it's been a very long time.

"Fox. I've missed you."

"Diana, you're dead... aren't you? What is this place?"   
he asks.

"I'm in your dream, Fox."

He considers this and somehow it makes sense, but his   
hand drifts to his forehead. Finding no bandage, he   
frowns in confusion.

"Don't worry, Fox. I'm not going to hurt you," Diana   
smiles. "This is just a dream, nothing more."

"Why are you here? What is this place?" he asks again.

"A place to rest," she answers softly. "Just sleep,   
Fox." She takes his hand and lowers him gently down   
onto the soft, perfumed ground. "Rest your mind here.   
Let go, Fox."

And he closes his eyes.

He wanders through glades and valleys, drifting, feet   
never quite touching the earth, but he senses that he is   
walking, moving ever forward, as the landscape flows   
past him in shades of blues and seafoam.

But he always returns to the peace of the hillside and   
its green sleep.

"Get up, buddy," a deep voice rouses him from slumber.

"You can't stay here, Mulder. You're drifting too   
close. You're hovering between worlds."

"He's right, Mulder. You don't belong here."

"Am I going to have to kick your ass? Get up!"

Mulder opens his eyes to find Frohike inches away from   
his face. "This must really be a nightmare. I'm   
dreaming about trolls now."

Frohike's face is an impassive frown.

"Surly trolls."

"I already know your cover's blown," Frohike says. "And   
I can't help you from this vantage point. You need to   
wake up and stop dicking around with this plane. There   
are no answers here."

"But there's peace," says Mulder. His head feels warm   
and heavy.

"You don't have time for peace right now, buddy," says   
Langly, giving him a hand and pulling him to his feet.   
Langly's skin is cold, and suddenly Mulder feels the   
chill of a thousand shadows rushing through him. A   
flash of black in his peripheral vision and suddenly the   
Gunmen are gone and he's face to face with---

"Krycek," he says. And Krycek smiles, white teeth   
glinting in the shadows, as he opens his mouth to speak.

****

"Wake up, Mulder. I think we're here," Scully says,   
gently patting his cheek. "At least this is the   
location on the map." She gets out of the car and looks   
around, squinting from the sun. "We're twelve miles due   
south of Shiprock, New Mexico... but I can't see a thing   
here."

Dizzy and half-awake, Mulder stumbles as he exits the   
car, and lands on the ground.

"Mulder!" she shouts, rushing to his side. 

He lets her help him to his feet, silently cursing   
himself for startling her again. "I'm all right,   
Scully. Just waking up." 

She studies him long and hard and he knows---he can   
hear---that she does not believe him. She releases him   
from her steely gaze and hands him the map. 

"Can you see anything, Mulder?"

He narrows his eyes, checking the horizon, the cliff   
line to the side of them, the shadow of Shiprock   
Mountain in the distance. "Nothing," he says. "Let me   
take another look at the map."

"I'm starting to think we've been sent on a wild goose   
chase, Mulder," she says, "and now we're sitting here   
unauthorized on reservation land. I don't know about   
you, but that makes me a little uneasy."

He stares at the map, puzzled. The coordinates are   
right. Scully has followed the directions to the   
letter. Although the area appears vast and empty, he   
senses they have arrived in precisely the right place. 

He closes his eyes and breathes in and out. In and out.

"Mulder, what are you doing?" she asks. He hears   
concern in her voice.

When he returns to the map, his eyes lock onto an   
elaborate legend drawn in the top left corner of the   
paper. Instead of pointing to the traditional north,   
this compass is strangely tilted.

"Scully, take a look at this," he calls.

She joins him, her eyes scanning the page. "It's   
pointing east."

"Deliberately, I think."

"What do you think it means?"

"I think something is intentionally hidden. We came in   
on a south road, right?"

She nods, confused, but still listening.

"So to align ourselves with the east, we need to look to   
our left--- isn't that right?" he grins.

"You're correct, Mulder," she gives him a wry half-  
smile.

They carefully orient themselves in an easterly   
direction. The light changes slightly and Mulder   
shields his eyes with his hand. The outlines of cliff   
dwellings begin to emerge. A series of tents, patches   
of grass bordered by fences, cattle grazing, horses   
sauntering along a creek, figures moving, laughter   
carried by the wind.

"Holy shit, it's an optical illusion! A trick of the   
light," he says, amazed.

"There was nothing here before," Scully says. "Are you   
sure it's not a mirage, Mulder?"

"Brigadoon," he whispers, walking toward the cliffs.

*****

Scully tries to take it all in as they walk through the   
ranch area in fading sunlight. Ernest Hosteen greeted   
them so warmly that she wished she could shake her   
uneasiness, and they agreed to follow him around the   
ranch for a tour. 

Ancient pueblos carved from the cliffs have been   
converted into housing for some. Others have tents   
scattered on the ground below. There's bustle and   
activity, people of all shapes, sizes, and   
nationalities. 

"A bit of an international coalition, isn't it?" says   
Mulder.

"We all come from the same place, Mr. Mulder," Hosteen   
answers. "It is fitting that we should gather together   
once more."

"Are all these people abductees, Mr. Hosteen?" Scully   
asks.

"Some, yes," Hosteen replies. "Others manifest unusual   
abilities, vestiges of our past... and future. All here   
have either found us or have been found. In the   
beginning, we came from the stars, all of us. Some   
simply carry that code to a greater degree."

"It's a good place for an abductee to be," says Mulder,   
"based on what we saw when we arrived."

"This area is ideally suited for our needs," says   
Hosteen. "The particular vibrations conceal us from   
radar, GPS, and the position of the light hides us from   
most eyes. We are here near the origin place," he   
points to Shiprock in the distance, "so the magnetite   
in the rocks above us provides added protection."

"So you're in hiding," Scully says.

"Not hiding," says Hosteen, "waiting." He picks up a   
handful of loose red dirt and lets it fall through his   
fingers. "We are teaching, learning, trying to find our   
place in a way that honors the earth. But there are   
those who would exploit that."

"I'm curious about the rubbing you left for us," Mulder   
presses. "We've seen something like that before, with   
similar translations."

Hosteen nods. "I stumbled across this artifact years   
ago. It's what I believe opened my eyes, shall we say?   
Later, I will show it to you, when you are stronger.   
You could not bear it now." He smiles, tapping both of   
them on the shoulders. "Enough of this. It's getting   
late. Let's go have some dinner."

They eat with other ranchers around a large campfire.   
Scully can't remember the last time she's dined beside a   
roaring fire. Somehow the food tastes better in the   
open air. There's music and singing, songs from many   
cultures. She feels as if they've been gifted with a   
peek into a truly global village. If not for her unease   
every time she catches Mulder unaware, noticing his   
furrowed brow---the pain he's trying to hide---she could   
almost say she is having a good time.

They settle into the tent Hosteen had prepared for them.   
Mulder collapses onto the blankets, thoroughly spent. 

"You hung in there a lot longer than I expected," she   
says.

"Didn't want to be rude," he says, sleepily.

She nestles in beside him, melting into his warmth.

"You know, Gibson would have loved it here," he says.   
"He finally might have felt like he belonged."

"I wonder where he is now, after everything that   
happened in Washington."

"I don't know," he says, resting his head against her   
shoulder. "I've been thinking about him a lot lately.   
Wondering how he was able to cope with everything."

"What do you mean?" she asks.

He kisses her shoulder softly. "All those thoughts. He   
could hear everything. How did he keep that in place---  
keep it from driving him insane?"

"He was born with that ability, wasn't he?" she asks.   
"He never knew life any other way. I believe we adjust   
to what life hands us."

"I wonder if William will," Mulder says, his voice   
trailing off.

She starts to respond, but notices that he's suddenly   
asleep. She snuggles next to him, safe and warm, and   
prays that, at least for tonight, dreams do not invade   
his sleep. 

*****

The next morning, he attempts to work with Hosteen, but   
he's still tired, far to tired to focus. Such a   
crushing fatigue, he doesn't understand where it's   
coming from. Hosteen waves him away with a smile, but   
Mulder can feel the concern he masks. 

He tells Scully she doesn't have to hover. "Climb the   
cliffs, take a walk, whatever... I'll be fine," he says.   
"I just need to sleep."

"Are you sure he's okay?" she asks Hosteen.

"He needs the rest," he tells her. "We will watch over   
him."

Sleep comes quickly and easily, but rest does not.

****

"I know why you worry so---why you can feel no peace,"   
says a dark-haired woman stepping out of a tent. An   
earthy perfume drifts from the opening of the cloth.   
She doesn't look Native American. Mediterranean,   
perhaps? To Scully's eyes, she resembles an Etruscan   
statue.

"Excuse me?" says Scully.

The woman places a hand on Scully's shoulder, causing   
her to flinch at the abrupt, unexpected contact. She   
smiles bemusedly at Scully's perplexed expression.   
Brushing Scully's hair away from the nape of her neck,   
she places a finger at the base of her skull.

"It's this," she whispers. "As long as this is part of   
you, you will never be free."

Scully breaks away, her hands instinctively rushing to   
her neck, protecting herself. "I don't know what you're   
talking about."

"Of course you do. We've seen this before. *I* have   
seen it before." She gathers her long hair with both   
hands, deftly twisting it into a knot atop her head,   
before turning to display a small, but thick, scar at   
the base of her neck. "Mine has been out for seven   
years now," she says.

"A chip?" Scully breathes. "You removed it?"

"There is a ceremony. It was a baptism of fire," the   
woman says, "but I survived. Many do, but there are   
those who do not."

"Mine was extracted once," says Scully. "We found later   
that removal was not the answer."

"Cancer?" The woman's eyes are wise and knowing.   
Scully finds it hard to meet her gaze. 

"It is their trap," she says. "A threat to destroy the   
body to keep you a prisoner. It is not right. You have   
lost much because of this." A wide smile replaces her   
seriousness. "I am Sofia. I do not mean to frighten   
you. You should know that we have found a way to thwart   
them. As I said, it is not easy, but it is necessary in   
order to remain here."

"I'm not staying," Scully says. She walks away from   
Sofia and her dark eyes that see too much.

*****

He is surrounded by stars, pinpricks of white against a   
stark background. It's what he imagines---or remembers-  
\--being in space to be. He winces at the sense memory   
of pain, even as he realizes that this is not that   
place. Still, he's been here before. He walks toward a   
dark figure, and shivers as it turns to face him. 

"Ah, the FBI man," Albert Hosteen says, smiling. An   
aura of light radiates from him and Mulder relaxes. "I   
thought I would meet you here sooner or later."

"What is this place, Mr. Hosteen?"

"Surely you remember. It is not the first time you have   
visited here."

"No, you're right." Mulder remembers lying motionless   
on his back, gazing only at the stars above and the   
occasional intrusion of family and colleagues. His   
father... the man he knew only as "Deep Throat"... his   
first journey to the underworld.

"This is the dream country, Mr. Mulder," Hosteen says.   
"You do not belong here. You may visit, even return if   
you learn the way, but it is not yet your time to stay   
here."

"I don't want to stay here. I want to find my son."

"As you are now, you could not find a cactus in the   
desert. You're drifting too close to the edge. Too   
close to the place where dreams and reality diverge.   
You must find a way to tie a string to your physical   
existence, something to guide you or hold on to... or   
you will be lost."

*Scully.* He turns her name around in his mind. There   
is nothing else to hold on to. 

"She's losing her way, as well, Mr. Mulder. She fears   
for you. She fears for your son. She wants to drown   
herself in blame and take on all your burdens. But she   
cannot shoulder it all for you. You cannot ask her to   
do this."

"I know... it's too much for anyone... but I don't trust   
myself to distinguish what is real anymore. I can't do   
this on my own."

"You are not alone. You have your Scully. You have   
your friends, your spirit guides. They have been   
helping you all along. It is fear that keeps your   
visions clouded. You must find the strength to see."

The white of the stars begins to grow, slowly overtaking   
the darkness. Hosteen vanishes and Mulder is alone,   
encircled by blankness.

A shadow grows in the corner, taking shape and form.   
There's a sick feeling in Mulder's belly as he   
understands what is happening.

"Are you ready to see now, Mulder?" whispers Krycek.   
"Are you ready to see what I have to show you?"

Mulder doesn't respond, but braces himself for what is   
to come.

He sees steel, passes through layers of metal, faster   
than he can process. It's a chamber of some kind, but   
he can't get a fix on anything. Images are flashing far   
too swiftly. He glimpses a small boy. William?   
Playing alone in a large room. Someone comes through a   
door. His back is to Mulder. The figure turns, but   
just as Mulder tries to see his face, a flood of other   
images intrudes, filling his head instead, casting out   
what was there before. Too many. Too fast. Too fast.

He screams.

******

She's shaken by Sofia's words, more than she believes   
she should be. She needs to be alone, just to think   
some things through. She walks away from the ranch, to   
a bluff line overlooking the western horizon, and sits   
above the desert, the weight of all the Williams and   
Emilys and Melissas heavy on her heart.

The sun begins to descend low in the sky and she's   
surprised by how long she's remained in one place. Just   
a couple of hours, but somehow it feels like years. She   
starts to walk back to the ranch, but the rosy fire of   
the sunset compels her to stay. 

She never allows herself to simply sit and ponder beauty   
anymore, but today she will let it wash over her, let   
the blaze in the sky consume her fears.

She doesn't hear the footsteps behind her, isn't aware   
until Ernest Hosteen settles himself beside her.

"Are you okay, Ms. Scully?" he asks gently.

"I'm fine," she answers, shaken from her meditation,   
"just taking a few moments while Mulder rests. Is he   
okay?"

"He's still sleeping. He needs the rest."

They sit in silence for a moment, admiring the way the   
warm hues of the sunset merge into the encroaching   
coolness of night.

Hosteen speaks first, "You don't have to worry, you   
know. We are safe here."

"How do you know that?" she frowns. "You can't know   
that for certain."

"No," he agrees, "I *can't* know for certain. But I   
have faith in our safety. That is less than many have,   
but more than some can say."

"I have faith," Scully says, fingering her cross.

"I'm not diminishing your beliefs," says Hosteen, "but   
I've come to consider faith as something separate from   
ideas---the ideas we are taught. Many wish to believe   
in ideas, but they need signs and wonders, beautiful   
myths to grasp. I know I needed that. Most days I still   
do. But there are those like your Mulder, whose desire   
to believe is so palpable, that they pass beyond the   
tangible. They step away with a faith in the universe   
that is so strong, they can feel in the core of their   
souls the reason, the pattern behind everything."

"I used to believe that Mulder was the most paranoid,   
untrusting man I'd ever met," she says softly. "Later I   
came to see him as gullible. He'd believe anyone who   
used the right terminology. Finally I realized he just   
might be the purest soul I would ever encounter." She's   
suddenly uncomfortable. She hadn't meant to share so   
much.

"Listen," Hosteen says, "what happened with your son---  
it is not your fault."

"Please, don't..." Scully protests.

"Something would have happened no matter where he was...   
because of who he is, who he will always be."

"I never asked for him to be special. I never wanted   
this for him."

"Dana, you must find a way to let go of this guilt. It   
serves no purpose. It will not help him."

Unwanted tears sting her eyes. She does not want to   
have this conversation. Not with him. Not with   
anyone... yet here she is. "I never should have brought   
him into the world," she says, not looking at him. "How   
could I have been so selfish?"

"You punish yourself for this every day," Hosteen's   
voice is low and understanding.

"I just wanted to believe that my life was normal,"   
Scully says, staring straight ahead. "That I was   
entitled to those things that everyone else takes for   
granted. I was wrong."

"So you think it is easier to be closed, to have a great   
wall around you."

"I've learned to do what is necessary to protect myself,   
if that's what you mean," she says.

"It is not easier this way, shutting out human   
experience, all vulnerability."

"That's unfair, Mr. Hosteen. Mulder and I have each   
other..."

"You have each other to keep your secrets," he   
interjects. "You trust the other to not open the   
wounds, yet you deny yourself the chance to speak of   
them, to truly heal."

"What Mulder and I do or don't do is our business," she   
counters. 

"Sometimes the things left unsaid can destroy us,"   
Hosteen says quietly.

Suddenly, Scully hears panting behind them. She turns   
and sees a young girl, out of breath and holding a   
flashlight.

"Ernie!" she shouts. "You've got to come back with me!"   
The girl notices Scully and gestures toward her. "Is   
that his wife?"

Hosteen looks at Scully, then back at the girl. "What's   
wrong, Rita? Is something wrong with Mr. Mulder?"

"He woke up with a fever, screaming. Screaming for   
'Scully'," Rita says. "We heard him from outside his   
tent. I left Robbie with him."

"He was alone?" Scully spits at Hosteen. "Goddamit!   
He shouldn't have been left alone!"

And then she's running, running, far away from the rock   
and the setting sun, back to him.

She bursts into the tent, motions for the boy attending   
him to leave, and wraps Mulder in her arms. He's   
drenched with sweat, face flushed and shining with fear. 

"It's okay, Mulder, I'm here," she whispers.

"Scully," he breathes, "I saw him again. I saw Will...   
he's..."

"Shh, Mulder, I'm here... just sleep. Just sleep."

Pulling a scratchy blanket over both of them, she eases   
him to the ground. She kisses his forehead, his cheeks,   
his lips, a strange dance of nurture and desperation.   
He grasps her tightly, enough to hurt, but she doesn't   
care. She will tether him to this world. She will not   
let go. She will shelter him as she never could herself   
or their son. She will keep him safe. 

He is all she has left.

*****

When she wakes in the morning, Mulder is gone. There's   
a stab of sharp terror in her chest, but she wills it   
away long enough to throw on clothes and step into the   
misty sunlight of the New Mexican morning.

She can hear his muffled voice coming from Hosteen's   
tent and breathes a sigh of relief, surprising herself. 

"Hey, Scully," Mulder says brightly, as she steps into   
the tent. "Ernie's got java if you want some." He's   
wrapped in a colorful blanket, a cup of coffee in one   
hand and several small green leaves in another.

"Good morning, Dana," says Hosteen. "I think he's   
feeling better today, thanks to you."

"That's good," Scully says coolly, finding a cup and   
sitting down. "Have you eaten breakfast, Mulder?"

"Not yet," he says. "Ernie's got some ideas he wants to   
try out this morning."

Scully raises an eyebrow, looking at Hosteen.

"After yesterday, I think some treatment is needed. His   
visions are coming too sharp and fast for his conscious   
mind to process. His body cannot keep pace, and it's   
beginning to affect his health. I'm trying to find a   
way to slow things down," explains Hosteen.

Mulder puts a small leaf to his mouth and chews. "Kind   
of bitter," he says, puckering.

"Mulder, what are you eating?"

"Salvia divinorum, Scully," he says, "the Shaman's   
herb."

She stares at him with disbelief. "Mulder, that's a   
controlled substance you're ingesting!"

"Salvia's perfectly legal, Scully. Just ask the FDA,"   
Mulder says, a tease in his tone.

"This is not funny. It's a drug designed to produce   
hallucinations and trance-like states. You're already   
seeing things. I don't see how this will help," she   
says.

"It's natural, Scully. It's not *designed* for   
anything," Mulder argues.

She glares at Hosteen. "I don't like the idea of   
anything else affecting his brain chemistry. We know   
too little about what's really going on with him."

"This will not hurt him. I've seen this before,"   
Hosteen says, calmly. "This will help."

"You can't possibly be suggesting that this is the   
cure," she spits.

"This will not cure him, no," he answers. "But if he is   
receptive, this could slow things down enough for him to   
see... and if he can learn the way to see, he will not   
need the sage."

"This is bullshit," Scully says, and turns to Mulder.   
"I'm going for a walk. Don't let anyone leave you alone   
this time."

She bursts outside into the harsh light of day,   
stubbornly refusing eye contact with anyone who tries to   
meet her stare, however friendly they may appear. She   
walks to where their car remains parked, takes out her   
phone and hopes for a clear signal. Reception is weak,   
but there's enough to make a call... she hopes.

Taking a folded scrap of paper out of the glove box, she   
punches in a number and waits for an answer.

"Monica Reyes."

"Agent Reyes," Scully says, "this is Deborah Newland.   
I'm following up on that background check from a few   
days ago."

"Hi... Deborah," says Monica. "Let me get that file.   
It's done---but there are some issues we need to   
discuss."

Scully closes her eyes and holds her breath for a   
moment, listening to the sound of shuffling papers.

"Okay," says Monica, returning, "Ernest Hosteen. No   
criminal record."

"Good," says Scully. And she means it.

"But the strange thing is, he did a virtual disappearing   
act from the tax records in 1992. The last employment   
record I could dig up was from 1991. He was an   
executive at a large firm. The company tried to file a   
breach of contract suit against him, but it was dropped.   
He just disappeared."

"What was the company?"

"Pinck Pharmaceuticals."

A pause. A click.

"Deborah?"

"... Dana?"

*****

"Just let go, Mulder, and we will try this," says   
Hosteen. "I will be right here."

Mulder listens, but the sage drifts into his brain,   
sending a warm current throughout him, and the sounds   
fade slowly. He feels himself pulling away from his   
body and his surroundings fade away, replaced by new   
images, slower than before.

This vision is clear, startlingly so. Mulder sees his   
son, all reddish hair and blue eyes. They are her eyes,   
wise and piercing. His lips and unruly hair, but---  
thank God---her nose. And he wants to laugh with the   
joy of seeing them both reflected in this child. 

William is playing with building blocks. He's busy,   
this boy. Mulder feels a fatherly pride, noting   
William's intense concentration as he stacks and   
constructs an intricate tower. Mulder delves deeper and   
is shaken when he feels the loneliness and hints of   
uneasiness inside William. His hand reaches to touch   
William's cheek and he can feel his own heartbreak   
tapping out a broken rhythm.

William's eyes widen and Mulder can feel him tense   
inside. He can feel him there. Mulder pulls back,   
ashamed of his intrusion. He didn't mean to frighten   
the child. 

Two images flash before him as he pulls away. One is   
Linda Van de Camp, with crystal clarity. Another,   
fading, muted, as if William couldn't quite conjure   
every detail, is Scully. These are the people who have   
loved William, protected him. He remembers.

Mulder wills himself to pull up and away from his son,   
to try to backtrack and get a sense of where William is.   
He drifts upward, though the metal chamber, and passes   
through layer after layer of earth, accompanied by a   
sick sense of claustrophobia...

"Mulder! We're leaving! We have to leave now!"   
Scully's voice breaks the spell. He's back, suddenly,   
abruptly, to the darkened tent and the perfume of sage.

"What's wrong, Dana?" asks Hosteen, surprised. He jumps   
from his seated position.

"I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to Mulder," she   
says in a commanding tone. "Get up, Mulder. Get your   
shoes on."

Mulder rubs his eyes and stares at her, confused.   
"What's going on, Scully?"

"We can't stay here," she says. "We're not safe here."   
She flashes Hosteen an icy glare. "We've been misled."

"Dana---" Hosteen begins.

She cuts him off and helps Mulder to his feet. "Save   
it. I don't want to hear any more lies. I have a   
weapon, and I'm prepared to use it." She leads Mulder   
out of the tent.

"You're making a mistake, Dana," Hosteen calls behind   
them. "It's not what you think."

"Scully?" Mulder asks, still blurry. "What are you   
doing? Where are we going?"

"Get in the car, Mulder," she says.

Through the glare of the window, Mulder looks for his   
reflection, but finds Krycek looking back at him, a   
phantom in the glass. 

"I think you're ready to know now, Mulder," says Krycek.   
"Are you ready to listen?"

"Yes," says Mulder, as Scully starts the engine.

*****

When the shadows lengthen   
and burn away the past,  
I will fly me like an angel to   
a place where I can rest.  
When this begins I'll let you in,  
September when it comes.

\- Roseanne & Johnny Cash "September When It Comes"


	5. Geometry of Loss, The

Chapter 7

***For twenty long years, Ulysses and his wife Penelope   
were separated by war and the whims of the gods.   
Through it all, she never stopped waiting and watching   
for his ship to appear on the horizon, even as she   
outwardly moved on with her life. Strings of suitors   
were kept at bay as her cleverness kept her husband's   
kingdom intact for him and for their son.

When Ulysses made his way home at last, they rejoiced at   
the reunion. But Ulysses soon realized that the quest   
would never be over for him, not as long as adventure   
remained. He was made for the fight, the struggle, the   
search, not to rest in a castle enjoying the spoils of   
war.

And so he left Penelope again, believing that she could   
not share his wanderlust and his drive to discover. But   
I wonder if Ulysses misjudged his wife. Did she dream   
of a different life? Was she waiting for him to say the   
words and sweep her away with him? Did her heart break   
just a little more when she realized that he had chosen   
the quest over her?

Yet, was it pure selfishness on Ulysses' part, or did he   
hope to shield his wife from an uncertain life? War and   
its horrors can change a man in ways not always visible   
at the surface. Was it actually love and protection at   
work? 

For years I've dragged Scully along on endless,   
fruitless quests, but now... the more I live this   
strange life of shadow and dream, the more I believe   
that some paths are not meant for both of us.***

******

The landscape is barren, a vast expanse of dusty chalk   
as far as he can see. The white casts a hazy glow on   
the horizon before bleeding into a stark blue sky. 

Crystal blue persuasion, he thinks absurdly. The color   
of her eyes. 

At first glance, Mulder thinks snow, but upon closer   
inspection, he sees the crystals of bone white, salty   
sand, cracked earth and the stench of decay. Gnarled   
branches of parched wood litter the ground. Dry bones.   
Things don't rot here so much as they dehydrate. The   
desiccated corpses of birds lie baking, drying like   
mummies in the sand.

Nothing lives here. 

At least not for long.

Krycek appears, wrapped in leather and shadow, a dark   
blot on the pale landscape. Mulder finds that he is not   
surprised to see him.

"Do you know where you are, Mulder?" Krycek asks.

"It's Utah, isn't it?" he answers. "The Salt Flats.   
There's an interstate running through it."

"Only a slice of it," Krycek says, "but not where we're   
going. You could say we'll be taking a back door."

Mulder's vision shifts, zooming in on a tiny dark spot   
in the distance. Closer, closer, to something like a   
manhole cover, rusty and flecked with salt, surrounded   
completely by this otherworldy desert. He reaches for   
its handle and his fingers pass through the metal before   
he remembers he is immaterial, merely a spectator in   
this plane.

His realization breaks the illusion, sending him reeling   
with a mass of images swirling through his mind. Salt,   
death, sky, metal, planes, flashes of red hair.   
William?

Scully. 

She's beside him, her hands at the wheel, eyes forward.   
One clear image of her before his vision is swept under   
by an all too familiar pain. An unbidden moan escapes   
his lips as the nightmare rush hits him. 

"Mulder?" 

"Utah... we've got to go to Utah, Scully," he says,   
wincing and clutching his forehead. 

"We're not going to Utah, Mulder," she says, easing the   
car to a stop in a graveled parking lot. Darkness   
swirls around him, but through the patches of shadow he   
can see the dusky twilight and prairie grass.

"Where are we?"

"We're at a motel outside Colby, Kansas," she says,   
searching through her purse. "I've been driving for 11   
hours. It's nearly dark and I need to stop for the   
night."

"The last thing I remember is Colorado," Mulder says   
weakly, rubbing his temple. "You're going east. We   
need to go west---"

"You've slept for most of the day," she says, cutting   
him off with a worried glance, "but you still look like   
you could use some more rest." She sighs. "At least   
you'll be comfortable tonight." 

She steps out of the car and he watches her walk to the   
office, the drumming in his head building, accelerating.   
When she returns, his breathing is shallow and his eyes   
are tight with pain. 

"Mulder, are you okay?" Scully asks, startled.

"I don't know," he answers honestly.

She draws a deep breath. "Let's get to our room and   
I'll check you out."

She drives to the end of the building, parks beside a   
tall cottonwood tree, and steps out of the car to open   
the trunk. Mulder listens to her rummaging through   
their bags and boxes amid the constant hum in his head.   
Bags over her shoulders, she helps him out of the car. 

Mulder settles himself on one of the room's double beds.   
Scully grasps his wrist and places her index finger at   
the base of his hand. "Your pulse is racing," she says   
softly, reaching for her medical bag. "I should   
probably take your blood pressure. Is your head   
bothering you again?"

"I had another...dream...vision...visitation? I don't   
know what they are, Scully," he says, "but it was Krycek   
this time...and he says he knows where William is."

The crease between Scully's eyes deepens, and she purses   
her lips before speaking. "Utah, I assume?"

Mulder coughs and takes a few shallow breaths. "He   
showed me an...entrance, somewhere in the Salt Flats, I   
think. No directions, just a picture." He runs a hand   
through his hair. "I don't know, I just think it's   
worth checking out."

"Checking out what, Mulder?" Scully asks, grasping his   
shoulders. "You had a dream, and as vivid as it might   
have been, it was only a dream."

He tenses under her grip and looks away, as much in   
frustration as pain.

"Mulder, we don't know what is causing your visions,"   
she whispers. "I'm not discounting them, but we don't   
know their source. We can't go all the way to Utah on a   
hunch when we don't know who or what is out there right   
now tailing us."

"Right now it's the only lead we have to find William,"   
he says. "What else do we have? And why are you taking   
us east when everything points to looking west?"

"I'm regrouping, Mulder!" she says, her voice raising   
slightly before she catches it and resumes a normal   
tone. "I want to head closer to D.C., maybe find a way   
to make contact with Reyes and Doggett, get you examined   
somehow, pick up some new aliases and information from   
Jimmy and Yves since our current identities are shot,   
and..."

"See your mother," he says, as if he's plucked the   
thought out of the air.

She stares at him for a moment, relaxing, crumpling   
slightly. "No," she says. "No, I'm not ready. Not for   
that. Not while this is happening with William."

"But you want to," Mulder says, gently touching her   
face.

She places her hand over his and rests it against her   
cheek for a moment. Mulder feels her pulse, her warmth   
against his skin, and his breath slows, the pain   
creeping away for now. 

She lets go, abruptly standing. "What I want is to take   
a shower and get some sleep." 

****

Their room is blanketed in utter darkness, but an odd   
clicking sound wakes Mulder. A fiery orange glow   
ignites beside him, and he can make out the tip of a   
cigarette. There's a sick feeling in Mulder's stomach   
as a familiar stench of smoke hits his nostrils.

"Such an elusive thing, fatherhood," says a low, hoarse   
voice, laced with an arrogance that makes Mulder clench   
his fists. The cigarette rises, making contact with a   
pair of withered lips. Amber light illuminates a gray   
and weathered face that Mulder knows instantly. 

C.G.B. Spender breathes in deeply and exhales a long   
trail of smoke. "To make that kind of monumental   
contribution---the creation of a child---and yet have no   
control whatsoever over who he is or what he becomes."

"You..." Mulder says, his voice a low growl.

"Disheartening, isn't it, Mulder?" He smiles, taking a   
long drag. "I always found it to be."

"You're not my father, you bastard. DNA doesn't make a   
damn difference."

A sinister smile twists Spender's features, and he   
inhales deeply, the smoke a macabre halo. "The son   
cleaves to his mother. It's biology, Mulder. Any   
attachment to the father is one of familiarity... or   
more often, fear. In the best case, we're all merely   
sperm donors."

Mulder flinches in spite of himself. "That's a blessing   
when the father is a coldhearted, black-lunged son of a   
bitch."

"Too true, Mulder. After all, aren't we all really the   
sum of our environments?" 

Spender touches a withered finger to the center of   
Mulder's forehead, and he flashes to the vision he   
glimpsed at Hosteen's ranch. Layers of dirt, steel, and   
the unmistakable presence of his son. He shudders, his   
temper rising sharply.

"William! You know where he is!"

But Spender only smiles and lights another cigarette.   
"The Indian," he sneers, "I see he told you nothing of   
value."

"You bastard!" Mulder reaches forward and attempts   
fruitlessly to shove Spender, who begins to laugh, a low   
and mocking sound.

"Tell me where to find my son!" Mulder shouts above the   
laughter, his anger building. 

Spender's voice is suddenly cool. "You've seen it for   
yourself. Now figure it out."

A fierce, lupine rage clenches Mulder, and he lunges for   
Spender, somehow making contact this time. He seizes   
Spender by the throat and grips tighter, tighter.   
Spender struggles, choking, but Mulder only increases   
the pressure. He ignores the muffled sounds of protest,   
but unexpectedly, his victim's gray features begin to   
fade into porcelain skin, auburn streaked tresses...a   
tiny woman gasping for breath.

Scully, he realizes with horror. 

He releases her instantly, roughly, and she crumples to   
the floor. "Scully!" Rushing to her, covering his body   
with hers. "Oh my God, Scully, are you all right?"

"Mulder..." she croaks, gasping, "what just happened?"

He caresses her hair, covers her cheek with desperate,   
fluttering kisses. "God, Scully, I'm so sorry." He   
buries his face in her hair, his voice muffled. "I'm so   
sorry."

"Was it...another hallucination?" she asks, still short   
of breath.

"Spender. The Cancer Man. He was here," Mulder answers.   
"I...I thought you were him," he winces, feeling wild,   
foolish.

"Mulder, you know he wasn't here," Scully says, rubbing   
her neck.

"He knows where William is," he mutters. "I tried to   
make him tell me, but..."

Mulder's voice breaks as a rush of pain centers,   
circling beneath his forehead. It is different this   
time. Instead of the swirl of color, image and motion   
that usually assaults him, he is enveloped in a   
maelstrom of darkness. This is shadow. This is pain.   
This is fury.

He screams.

The icy blue of Scully's terrified eyes is the last   
thing he sees before the darkness overtakes him.

****

He dreams of making long and luxurious love to her,   
feeling the curve of her body beneath his, drowning in   
the taste and scent of her. He laps at the bruised   
flesh of her neck, each kiss fading the marks from   
purple to porcelain. His touch restores her, and she   
rewards him with pleasure, as they meld into one, the   
distance between them melting, dissolving into a   
communion of body and soul.

But even in the depths of this glorious release, he's   
acutely aware that unlike his nightmare visions, this is   
only a beautiful dream.

****

Mulder awakens with a soft pillow behind his head and   
Scully beside him, engrossed in a medical journal.   
She's pulled the collar of her shirt up, but he can see   
a harsh ring of bruises around her neck, and he wants to   
sink beneath the blankets rather than meet her eyes.

"Scully, where are we?" he asks, not knowing where to   
begin.

"You're awake," she says, looking up. Mulder can hear   
the relief in her voice, but feels the distance, the old   
wall. He senses she's somewhere just beyond his reach   
again. Protection. He can't blame her, but he feels   
weary, spent and broken, as if he's climbed a mountain   
only to fall from the pinnacle. 

"We're in Colby Memorial Hospital," she continues. "You   
lost consciousness again after an intense hallucination.   
You may not remember much of your episode---"

"No, I remember what happened," he says, and his words   
hang in the air for a moment, neither of them daring to   
speak.

"Scully, I---"

"I wanted to get you closer to home, where there were   
people we trusted to handle this quietly," she says,   
continuing despite his interjection. "But tonight made   
me realize that you might not survive the trip back   
east. Your hallucinations have increased to the point   
that you're becoming a danger to yourself---"

"And others, obviously," he says. "God, I'm sorry,   
Scully. You know I would never..."

"Mulder, I'm fine," she says, her mouth a thin line. "I   
know this didn't happen...intentionally... but we can't   
gamble with your health any longer. You could be   
experiencing a recurrence of your brain disease. It   
could be anything---but you need tests, CAT scans,   
examinations I can't do on my own."

"What about the risk of exposure, here in a public   
hospital?"

"We don't really have a choice right now," she sighs.   
"I called Jimmy. They think we have a day or two before   
our current aliases become a problem. Meanwhile,   
they're working on new ones using Frohike's old setup."   
She gives him a tight smile. "So enjoy your last days   
as David Newland. God knows who you'll be next."

Mulder looks out the window toward the darkened parking   
lot. "Scully, I know you don't believe me, but I don't   
think we can afford to waste time here in the hospital   
when we could be looking for William." He pauses,   
noticing the pained expression on her face. "He's in   
Utah, Scully...and we could find him..."

"Mulder, what I can't afford right now is to lose you,"   
she says, taking his hand. "You know I want to find our   
son...but I can't do it without you. Your health is in   
question, and...you...you're all I have left."

Their eyes meet, and Mulder sees a world of pain,   
confusion and loss in Scully's blue gaze. With effort,   
he looks away. "Okay, Scully," he says softly, "we'll   
stay. I'll do whatever you want." 

****

The fluorescent lights vibrate with a steady hum, the   
most persistent noise in the quiet hospital. Mulder   
listens as the sound swells and ebbs, measuring its   
rhythm. After sleeping all day, he's finally reached   
his limit in the wee hours of the morning. The silence,   
marred only by the occasional beep and voice on an   
intercom, is oppressive, reminding him of too many   
sleepless nights in his old apartment. 

Beside him, Scully sleeps peacefully, her small body   
folded into an orange chair. She vowed to stay awake to   
guard against any of his visions, and he knows in the   
morning she'll be furious at her weakness, but he's   
relieved to see her resting at last. He wants to touch   
her, embrace her, bask in the peace that radiates from   
her in sleep.

But in the corner of the room, a shadow grows and Mulder   
shivers as it moves toward him. 

"She won't let you go," Krycek whispers, cool breath in   
his ear, "so you'll have to leave now, while she's   
occupied."

"Occupied?" argues Mulder. "She's sleeping." He   
glances at her, slumped in the chair. "I can't leave   
Scully."

"You're a danger to her now. You know that, don't you?   
Besides, you really don't have a choice," says Krycek.   
"Not if you want to get to William in time. And she   
won't let you leave when she wakes up. You can count on   
that." He points to the duffel bag tossed in the chair   
across from the bed. "Your clothes and the keys are in   
there. Get dressed and I'll help you get to the car."   
He sneers, "Promise I won't look."

Mulder's head is pounding. He can't think, can't make   
sense of what Krycek is saying. Krycek steps closer to   
the bed and fixes Mulder with a black glare. When   
Mulder meets his eyes, the drumming in his head   
immediately stops, and he's paralyzed in the face of   
Krycek's darkness. 

"You have to leave, Mulder."

"I have to leave."

"She won't let you go."

"She won't let me go."

"It's the only way to find your son."

"It's the only way to find my son."

"You want to find your son, don't you?"

"Yes, I want to find my son," says Mulder, a strange   
sense of calm acceptance settling over him. He steps   
out of the bed slowly, the ground unsteady beneath him.   
Shaking, he somehow changes out of the hospital gown   
into jeans, a gray shirt and a light jacket, the first   
clothes he finds.

From somewhere inside his jacket, Krycek pulls out a   
long, black coat and wraps it around himself and Mulder,   
pulling him close. Mulder feels an unsettling sense of   
being pulled into another plane, another dimension, one   
of intense cold and boundless loneliness. It feels   
oddly familiar to him.

"I'm going to get you out of here," Krycek says, "but I   
won't be able to maintain this for long. You're going   
to have to listen to me."

Mulder takes one final look at Scully before letting   
Krycek lead him out the door.

****

He drives through the night, forward motion, head   
throbbing amid brief periods of clarity. Krycek's   
phantom figure rides beside him, image flickering and   
sputtering, as if generated by an old movie projector. 

At times, the pain, fatigue, and images fill his head   
and he starts to slip over the edge. Mulder can't   
explain it, but somehow Krycek senses it, and touches a   
phantom hand to Mulder's steering wheel death grip,   
jolting him awake and alert like a shot of adrenaline. 

He wonders what would happen if he let go. The car   
would crash; what is left of his conscious mind knows   
this for certain, but what of himself? Would he merge   
into this kinetic oblivion, becoming one more image, one   
more piece of this ever shifting puzzle?

And would there be peace there?

******

Scully jolts awake, her neck stiff and sore from   
sleeping in an upright position. She blinks, willing   
her eyes to adjust to the way the room's shadows are   
pierced with unnatural fluorescent light. 

Too long since her intern rotation. She used to be able   
to navigate a patient's room in the wee hours with   
feline precision, measuring their breaths, checking the   
levels in their I.V.s without ever turning on a light.   
Too long, even, since their days of piercing shadowy   
rooms with flashlights. She's become far too accustomed   
to the stark sunlight of the Southwest. 

When her vision clears, her eyes dart to the bed beside   
her. 

Empty.

Mulder?

She checks her watch. 3:48 AM. Shit. She's been   
asleep for two hours. And he was asleep for much   
longer. She watched his breath rise and fall for three   
hours before giving in herself.

What would a doctor be doing with him at 3:48 AM? What   
the hell could have happened to him at 3:48 AM without   
her awakening? Her mind races through at least twenty   
different scenarios before she takes a deep breath, and   
then another. 

*Freaking out never helped anyone, Dana.* 

And she swears she hears her sister's voice in her head.

Brushing it aside, she moves toward the room's small   
bathroom. Not really expecting to find him there, she   
splashes cold water on her face, examining the ring of   
bruises around her neck. She glances at the small gold   
ring on her finger. It's not a real wedding ring, just   
part of their cover. They've kept up the charade as   
much for survival as in Frohike's honor. 

But she knows it's not a promise.

She opens the door of the room, looking both ways down   
the hallway. Catching sight of a lone figure at the   
nurses' station, she walks briskly down the hall. A   
young nurse on duty, dirty blond curls and a round,   
sweet face. Scully doesn't remember her from earlier. 

"Nurse," she asks, forcing a calm she does not feel,   
"has the patient in room 317 been moved for any reason?"

The nurse looks at her, confused, and checks her chart.   
"317? Mr. Newland? You're his wife, right?" she asks,   
as Scully nods. "I got here about an hour and a half   
ago, and when I went in to check his readings you were   
both asleep." She looks at Scully with concerned brown   
eyes. "Is he...out of his room?"

"Have you seen anyone leave this wing in the last hour?"   
Scully asks.

"No," says the nurse. "Do you think I should I call   
security?"

Scully turns and rushes out of the wing, pushing open   
the door of the nearest stairwell, scanning up and down   
from bottom floor to ceiling. She runs down to the   
first floor exit, to the covered parking garage.   
Looking over the lot, she sprints to where their car was   
parked hours before, finding only an empty space. Her   
heart skips a beat before it starts pounding madly in   
her chest. 

She pulls her cell phone from her jacket pocket. No   
reception in this structure of concrete and steel, so   
she rushes outside into the early morning darkness. A   
few stars remain and she counts them absently as she   
taps in a number. 

A weary voice answers on the other end.

"I'm sorry. I know it's early, but I need some   
information," Scully says, crisp and businesslike. "I   
need his number, as soon as you can get it for me."

******

Walter Skinner stares out his office window. He's still   
not used to the view here. No neoclassical architecture   
or homogeneous federal buildings. The spires of the   
Mormon Tabernacle dominate the cityscape like a macabre   
Disneyland. There's a sterile strangeness to this city,   
he thinks, something unsettled just below its tranquil   
surface. 

He's taken up hiking here. Hadn't done it in years, but   
here the mountains beckon him, call him out of the city,   
out of the suffocating valley to climb their heights,   
breathe the thin air and gaze for miles until he finds   
the point at which the city meets salty desert.

These days he catches himself staring into the distance   
all too often, in a way he hasn't since returning from   
the war. It's similar, this feeling: battle weary,   
hardened by surprise attacks and losses, unsure of his   
place outside the fight.

This is not the place he envisioned for himself at this   
point in his career, certainly not the path he had   
planned. The director's chair is desperately far away   
from Salt Lake City, and although he heads this field   
office, that's all it is---a field office. Years of   
service and playing by the rules of the Bureau, wiped   
away by one dark night when he blatantly tossed those   
regulations away. He sighs.

He'd do it all over again.

"Sir," his secretary's voice breaks him from his   
thoughts, "you have a call on line one, a referral from   
someone at Headquarters."

"I'll take it," he says, picking up the receiver.   
"Walter Skinner."

"Sir," says a soft voice, barely audible, "I'm taking a   
risk by calling you... but I'm running out of options."

*Dana.* He somehow stops himself before saying her name   
aloud. He feels a sharp sense of relief at hearing her   
voice, knowing that she's still there somewhere. A   
thousand questions rush through his mind, but he knows   
this is not the time or place to ask. 

"What can I do for you?" he asks instead.

"Sir, I need your help."

He pauses, swallowing hard. "You've got it."

(Continued in Chapter 8)

*****

"Wish I knew what you were looking for,  
Might have known what you would find."

\- The Church, "Under the Milky Way"


End file.
